English is particular to the company it keeps; so is math March 24-2000
Words flowing from an open wound
There’s been a murder here,
A writer, stabbed to death by his own pen
Yet the blood he blood was not red
It was bald, and stained darkly
It was ink, and not the blood of normality
The writer was different, and this is to be expected
It is a rare breed of cat that can do as a writer can
The culprit was an equation
The writer, frustrated, cursed the frustration and equation
Then, with an x2 [x to the second power] jumped off the page
And attacked, attacked, ruthlessly attacked
Death came rare, a writer died
Math and English, a bad combination indeed.
It takes a renaissance man to master them both
Number 4 of poems written tonight.
(First, Free Verse,
Second, Irony abounds
Third, Witch’s Coven
Forth, the one up above_
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