a poem by Roger B Rueda
for A, who disdains Koreans in holes and corners
but has no wings even those of a butterfly
to get free
You appear to be a covert assassin:
time and again you saber me to polish
me off, wearing a masquerade
of a JabbaWockeez.
I won’t be heartrending if I am slain
so long as I know who my slayer is,
my stiff aware whose entozoons
nipping it in stages.
Don’t put your enchanting
respects into words, within which is your vanity,
laying claim how thick as thieves
we are and our favouritism cuts ice.
I’ve caught you on already, curse whisperer
visibly outstretching the lot you loathe.
Slay me personally, don'tt eat the dust.
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