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.
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