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.
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