Poetry: a Panacea For Poets

The cud I rechewed // in the riverside // was from a sett of dreadful hemlock // that struck the aquifers of my soul. Blight glue my night // as mournful as the grave-in my streets // silence defeats me. I weep formaldehyde // I would go mad —naked // struggling for precision. Until I bite through the pages of poesy // that charges the sapless pulse in my arteries: hope has feathers and many more. In those poems I chew away murderer's hand // lurking around my shadows & ravaging it beyond repair. In a short while // I would calligraph about God // for crafting out poets // who are small "god" in his image // I envied // yet, I'm a poet. Damn me if I ever doubt that poetry isn't a panacea for poets.