Exquisite Corpse Poem #3


Thelma is my sworn enemy
my doppelganger irritant
likes to make my life miserable
broken dreams, I am the object of their frustrations
tension building; a thousand fingers pointing.
“It was him” the crowd shouted, demanding blood
“Truth wears thin,” the man pouted, steeped in mud
wondering how much soap and water he would need
Would that cleanse a man of greed?
Or would he long for the treasures that were?
And would their acquisition sate his desire for wealth?


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