Poet In the Pot

Of many are poets in soup gagged with the air we breathe suffocated by the strings of hawks perked by the long neck of an ostrich. Drown in the murky water of obsequiousness tied to the apron strings of what to chomp turned juggler for survival instinct danced to the tune of he that plays the piper. Others' soup plunged them into soup tongue-lashing the untouched of the land louding the truth above the speaker of life paying for the conviction in-built But the poet is already in the pot struggling to un-pot himself fromthe fangs and thorns of the land how long will he be potted still in the pot?