Was It Really Always Me?
by Happy Hiram
The glue that held
the host together,
the pepper that stirred the stew
the platform that cradled
the dervish
the planet that housed the virus
that made us all sound good
and revive the sputtering muse.
The muse is alive in me
but her sisters languish
in silence, laughing
at the terror of being
a footnote.
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