Does It Say Itself
What is that central pole
does it hold up a voice like a brazen spine?
And the many rooms
all of them built to be seen
with no modesty nor privacy.
Rooms where the talking clacks
never pausing, never harkening.
There are mouths
in the air free-floating.
This artless architecture, does it say itself
as a poem does?
Or does it clatter and broadcast its presence
turning, revolving as a display will.
There are holes in this unstructured edifice,
holes where mice
go to eat their own bones.
Look! It is a brain, it is calcified
a rabid ego haunts it.
Can it be covered up, subdued, made to speak
only when spoken to?
Or is it a robotic manikin that will drive your being
while you sleepwalk
through its hollow domain?
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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