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ABCDBAC
Her fingers carry cold-hard precision
like a surgeon, seeking out disease;
The irrational critic slashes
less out of need to please the art
than out of lust to appease
her thirst to grind your vision
into ashes.
I'm just a chip in her pile
trying to rhyme my way into stardom
under a subjective guillotine.
Hoping I catch her at the right time of day
lest five o'clock boredom
decides I'm worth the while
of the bladegleam.
Oh, is it all random, my dear?
Or at least, some of it.
Are the right voices being heard?
What are these words worth,
what will come of it
if you decide to shake spears
at the brightest birds?
profound!