I am tired of writing draft versions of my poems, editing them and putting them up. So I decided to give 'instant art' a try. Hence the 'instant poem' or the poem written without any forethought.
Baroness of verse.
Why did you hide
In furtive style
From wandering human gaze?
Your odes to death
Spill over centuries of sleep
So does your reclusive stealth.
'I am nobody', you say
To your pocket book
And partner in heinous crime.
Even the psychic sometimes overlook
The way insignificance penetrates through time.
ps: This is a silly little ode to Emily Dickenson, the reclusive American poet.