Fatality

by Leah L. Cole

One day in March, a poet died.
Nobody noticed,
Not even the body she lived in
Her swan song, troubled and dark,
Was lost in the natterings of pretentious
College freshmen who had been nowhere,
Done nothing,
And the scathing remarks of a cynical professor,
Whose two-penny scrawlings gathered dust
And critical derision.

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