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  • By Troy Camplin


My Muse, the gift of God and memory, Is silent, doesn’t always speak to me With her crepe myrtle lips or skipping feet That dance out lines in a butterfly beat – I chastise her and here she is, divine And making poems I pretend are mine – I measure out my words until the Fates Cut off the lines and measure out the weights Which keep the poem hanging at the height Where all can see the colors as the bright Hot flame illuminates its sphere – the sky Invites the brave with their unclouded eye To contemplate the zinnias which sing, The dance and song which hides in everything.

Troy Camplin is a poet, playwright, and independent scholar living in Richardson, TX. With his B.A. in recombinant gene technology, Master's in English, and Ph.D. in the Humanities, the majority of his scholarly work is naturally on economics. He writes for Medium, has a poetry blog at, and has plays available at New Play Exchange

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