The Word
You walk up to the microphone,
it is one of those old-time microphones
that almost hides the face behind it.
We celebrate ‘me’ like Walt the poet did.
I speak for you from behind a curtain
in the land of Ozymandias.
We are ruby slippers
worn by Ramses II who knew
the sum of one.
Percy Bysshe was an odd fish
but the point is not moot,
we are the root language - all of us
coming after the Word.
Behind that overly large microphone
all becomes a poem spoke by a seer,
she foretells of things to come through song.
Michelangelo high up in the gods
paints what he hears;
we who listen share
mystery books with each other.
Blind Roy O, sung for everyone
‘Only the Lonely’ can predict
what everyone knows already.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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