There are some poems,
Like the sleeping dog
You’re supposed to let lie,
I don’t want to write,
Afraid that after I dredge up
The body from the lake
It will be too late to throw it back.
I’ll have to name the killer
Or confess to the crime
And relate the circumstances.
Innocent parties will be harmed.
The guilty, caught unawares,
May resort to desperate measures
Further inflaming the situation
Causing an uncontrollable configuration
And unforeseen damage,
Exposing the dangerous nature of poetry.
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