Already Spent Nonsense

At first I wondered if all things have been said already, spent by poets of the past. They stole our words. We found them stashed. We rearranged, often deranged the lines with slash marks and nonsense. Death was pretty back then before we hid, behind the nettles of windows and doors. The lowering of a casket, not too many urns. Burning the night oil and the sound of ravens - a door knocker that eerily caws. The cause of writing strong with true feelings that crawl up one’s spine, teeth that deeply plunge into the carotid. The festering of sores Upon palms and heels. Worn out pages with feather quills and ink blots cold and alone in the night squats. The tender rendering of a seagull and a ghost. A captain that is bearded and robust. The tales of blind mice and braided hair; and children with no coded habitat. They curl up at your feet, next to the roaring fire of your speech and devour each word like curds and honey. Honey, that is sweet. You buzz with excitement as you leap off each cliff, hang-gliding. The tummies of development, in the youth, filled. Likewise their mouths form oohs and ahhs; and good girls and boys laugh and weep. They kick the dust as they follow their own paths home - imagination goes wild like a frenzy of bees, their nest disturbed with a poking branch. The lustful sweet tooth, aflame - a story takes shape climbing a lighthouse or tower into the ears, mouths, eyes and brain. Already spent, nonsense! Say what you have to say, from sun to sun. Poet speak! 3/19/2023