Rosanne Singer Poetry


Gods created me stunning head to toe,
with a spiteful streak and inability
to leave well enough alone. As you know,
I unleashed Vice, Old Age, Insanity
upon a perfect world, trapping slim Hope
half in half out, so you wouldn't despair.
Did they make me do it? Was I a dope?
No, my brain is full of more than hot air.
Do you seize the day if you never die?
Unless you've been down, what is elation?
Would anyone scorched upon the pyre
of lust consider life without passion?
Earth's a treasure box, rich and sad. Rejoice!
Neither bimbo nor pawn, I made a choice.

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