John Lawless Poet Free verse

THE LAST VESTIGE

Ah, poetry
The last vestige
Of its vestige
Fragments
Of a shattered love
Broken
By the demands
Of beauty
Showing its age
Metaphor
Lost in its meaning
Metered fences
Challenging the wanderer
Corralling the herd
Nuances lost
In the unplowed fields
A dandelion shunned
For lack of compliance.

Oh, poets,
Would we be led
To worship
At the slaughterhouse
Of free thought
Reshaped words
Rekindled passion

Or stand as one
Alone
Undaunted
Group
Of forever’s rebels

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Gershon Wolf March 29, 2026 at 8:59 PM This is so pro-found that a rank amateur like me has no shot whatsoever at interpreting it...

Joyce Faure March 27, 2026 at 2:26 PM Enjoyed very much!

Lin Lane March 27, 2026 at 6:53 AM A rebellious poet… imagine that! “To thine own self be true,” wrote Willie Shake. At the slaughterhouse would be as good a place as any to picket, but we’re not going to reach that point as long as we can hold a pen, we will write instead of being herded into a pen for also rans. Mighty glad you write of such things, John.