Strawberry, I know I haven't always been
as sentimental or daringly delicate as my name
suggests, but you know as well as I do that Poetry
is an urge, it's an addiction and as such it cannot
be scheduled or pleasing to every mind. My vocabulary
dies off when you're not here and my ink chases
after you - only to end up friend on the side walk
a few feet up the street. I'm afraid of inviting
the computer over for dinner because it devours
my soul as well and that changes the flavor of my words
for whatever's left of my lifetime - until he's my guest
again. Depression brings over an odd cinnamon whiskey
and Love raids my wine cellar, so I hate writing with them
at the table in your seat. Oh dear, Strawberry, I know
today's all about you, but you need to know that
your dear, sweet Poetry's just not the same
without you.
Happy Birthday, Strawberry...
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