'I am a poet,' I say, to a questioning
audience and their skeptical
looks, hanging upon dour faces like
mangoes after summer, too lush and unwanted,
'My masters are Language and Words, and their
weavers Meter and Syllable and Style,'
I say this while Emotion, wearing all her
bright masks of feather and glitter and colour and
bone and antique razorblades, giggles
girlishly out of sight of all but the ripest
mangoes; spewing their softness and fermented
mouthfuls of gentle pith and fruity ichor onto the
hungry ground, which Emotion tiptoes through
delicately, like a princess in silk, but
I know if her ankle turns and she trips in
despairing rage, her dear silks turn to fraying
sackcloth lined with jute twine, and she will
writhe in the fallen oversweetness, and make
pandemonium of us, masters, mangoes, and all.

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