Poetry's face is bruised.
Slow late night jazz rests
in the bones of that cold
hearted smile of his, all the
while new romantics fluster
in a cluster to use the art
as date rape; they read
our works with deep soulful
tones, expecting it to gain
a pulse in the mouth of
selfish clones; His veins have
been sliced open with a
corporate paper cut check,
as the pens refuse to work
without a sense of respect.
Hemingway returns from the
dead to craddle another bullet
firmly in his head; Shakespere
makes his death bed with wood
he carved from the oak tree of
wisdom and regret, but the wood
is stained with poison ivy, and
rotten at the core; william blake
tries to re-furbish his thoughts
but with the hard headed youth's
laughter, it's too heavy to capture.
The poets tree now has roots that
are hollow, only armed with metaphors,
assonance, illiteration and a chilling
silence screaming sorrow.
The poets eyes have seen many
scenes, from wars torn seams,
to a desparados lonely dreams...
But this time, his eyes are burning,
from an acidic tear drop, in mid
parade... this is a solitary movement
of artistic slaves.
This is a transitory step
to a new order,
until no more of us are left...
just an ignorant slaughter.
In between life and death we sleep
in purgatory, no emotive words to
bring back the art of a story...
No descriptive lovers roam in the
sands of time; only a bitter sweet
taste of salty water rhymes...
Good bye rhyme scheme!
These carniverous parchments
devour each soul with a drop of
ink for good luck; the steps to
a perfect dream have been
replaced with a pompous pen...
and as the last poet dies in the
fields of broken souls, a child is born
in a grave, this grave is to be
forever... an artistic slave.
This art has survived for thoushands of years,
it will NOT die here in the fountains of tears.
