The Bait


Valencia, slumber, and inkwell

Shades and tainted images hide well

The blemishes and marks that always dwell


Lest depicting realness, an uncensored weakness 

A witty skill, unknown to those seeking just a thrill

The humor of one, not funny to many


Yet my image is

Splintered, split 

Crumbled, clipped

Fractured, fixed

Erased, effaced


For the preference of one 

For an alluring taste to the tip of the tongue

For the perfect bits of media chum 

For an audience of many parts, yet fixed to single fishing braid


Yet I am not a piece of bait.

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world


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