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?
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