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Frost Cinquain

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A poem written in response to the latest writing prompt on one of my favorite sites, Poets Online http://poetsonline.org/ Unfortunately, I neglected to notice the expiration date for prompt, which always happens with the contents of my refrigerator too, so I should be used to this by now—

Frost, out walking in his woods
choosing his words and ways
tells us all a poem should
but more than the poet ever could
caught up in his rhyming daze.

Was it, as one teacher said,
a monumental choice?
Or, as another one read,
does it mean we’ll all end up dead
and all paths are the same in the poet’s voice?

Or, as I suspect,
all the difference was the phrase
that caught the poet round the neck,
led him to shuffle the words in his deck
leaving us on this tangled trek, wondering where the truth lays.

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