Poetry Won'T Hold Her Tongue

Poetry won't hold her tongue When desperate times And the little men they breed Would counsel silence. She bursts instead Athenalike From out the wearied brain Or grows painfully from every vein Like ivy's tiny tendrils Pulling monuments to ground Inch by inch To let in the light and rain From which newer monuments may grow. She cares not at all For their inconvenience. She shows herself so many ways: As the boldly topless Priestess, Snakes coiled about her outstreatched arms As the nun in golden sunlight Falling through cathedral stone This lady is a child All innocence of face And Ageless eyes She knows all that remains of purity, And every excess she also calls her own. She woos the soul with its own music; Her skin of sunsets draws her devotees Towards her embrace Her sweetcool breath like snowind calling She comes again unbidden Whispering her sweet nothings, Bearing words to work Creation Destruction Change Upon her restless, Gifted Tongue.