Wise women know the way to win
the west wind’s soul is with a quatrain,
a moment of emotional pain
on wrinkled paper, stained with sin.
The hardened heart of the southern breeze
is full of a poet’s insecurities.
He doesn’t say what makes him more willing,
only announces ways of faking a killing.
The east wind judges on phrase
and line, sets her gaze with hard eyes
on words she loves to revise,
cares little for the prosody craze.
The north is known as the pretty one.
She plays piano in classical time
and milks her love for music; so much fun
is had in sounds that repeat, words that rhyme.
They tend to fight for their separate ways:
their get-togethers, with twisted affections,
demand the voice of more heroic days
as their passions torque from four directions.
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