A Time For Small Poets

This is an age of blood; an interesting era, corn and potatoes rot in the fields or are sold into slavery. Money walks inside a Viking helmet, Mars is rising red with anger. This a time for poetry, for the old and young to scribble over burnt stones, to whisper into hurricanes. The world spins on but an axis of madness reigns, its spin is out of kilter, drugged by addictive illusions. Only the wild child with a charcoal pen can write down the pain, can see the fire simmering bright in the chilling snow. The path is crazy it has lost itself in a concrete maze of insane ideas and frothing words. It babbles, it has only spears to shake, as if such weapons' were as sharp as clear eyes. The soft neural tentacles of poets wave in the ash filled air, gather reasons, moments to sew together incautious words on the edge of a dire dawn. A pale light feeds them they report the storming storms camouflaged as they are by the in-between; their small testaments writ upon scapes of scorched insights for the readers and trackers of lost footprints.