The Crack In the Poets Mirror

Words drained, blood empty. Liquid poets imploded, Poured and stained upon each page, Given to the superficial sacrifice of meaning. There is no truth Which we did not participate in making; Ours for the taking In downward spiral steps contrived. All stars our own to swim, All space our whim. Our standard stopped. Desires dropped Intermittent fires out Behind the eye of every host. Fighting memory, now a ghost Encased in stones. Trading one another; Slingshot yo-yos born To farthest reaches. Each annoyance adding To the proof of scales. We wear them as a cloak, Then shed their skin. Our new man never comes. The old, erupted once; always Hung by tinsel strands and strung Upon a pleasured dome That some call home, Yet we dream a coming dawn. Carriages and motored monuments Stilled in rarer moments, filled With each ones essence. Dwindling our quality of existence Until we meet at dawn That man who never comes, To walk the earth In shoes that never were.