The Silence of Ink

You're a poet not because of syllable savvy or chaining a sonnet to its harp beat its because your oceans are far wider and deep your mind flits about like a hummingbird wing, turning scat and grit into silk and saffron kneading tides and slag into diamonds. You are vast things churning into infinity's mill raising seeds from earth inside your fiery head you're a quilt of emotional sapphire and silt. Through war and famine the stout voice still stands amidst cold hearted stars and charred out war lands your quill is a banner placed at the summit of time spitting ink at the petty thief and absentee Christ. The poet's pond is running low on passion and ink a hoard of slammers and scammers fast closing in. True poets cluster together in a last desperate flair, koi sucking the last haiku and couplet from the air. They could easily move along to a fresher pool, lounging in plastic castles if they so choose. Instead they move into the darkest hovel of truth. Laying souls on a coroner's slab of indifference unafraid to tell a communist rose that it really stinks. Slit their own security, nudge love and God over the brink. A true poet is unafraid of most anything, say for burning of parchment and the silence of ink.