The poet at the mic clasps sheaves of paper.
I'm grateful I'm not standing here, but sitting.
He launches his first wave in hollowed tones.
I settle and pick up my mental knitting.
D A Prince
The poet at the mic clasps sheaves of paper.
I'm grateful I'm not standing here, but sitting.
He launches his first wave in hollowed tones.
I settle and pick up my mental knitting.
D A Prince