Poets Escape
by Odin Roark
How willing
This heart and mind
Absorbing pain's daily prose
Global flagellation becoming
Best sellers
Top Box-office
Google's lifeblood
Whether Syria's dismemberment
Washington's absurdity
Or Hollywood's Grand Guignol Follies
Exhausted passions and intelligence
Clutter synaptic duty
Excused as collateral damage
Everyday wars of fear
Slowly accelerate
This self-destructive countdown
Repeating Time's insidious cycle
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
While few escape
Some find refuge
In the manifestos of metaphor
Using echoes of cranial madness
Illusion's manic voice
Mumbling through the night
Arranging similes
This is like that
That is this
Until...
Dream's phosphoreal mirage
Becomes imagination's reality
Layered tapestry hanging firm
Mind's needlework in progress
Becoming woven experience
To shroud forever
Weakness's acquiescence
For what?
For whom?
Poets know not
They just are
Categories:
guignol, psychological,
Form: Personification
The musty lights corrupt the stage
Twisting the form of the heavy curtains
Framed by the stolen shadows of cherubs
A delicate music box whispers into the guilded room
A faint perfume of smoldering limes bitter the air
This night could be Prague, Vienna...
Then I conquer the stage, arise and fulfill the lights
Only to again to have my dignity murdered infront of me
Adressing a hollow room
The only half-sound, glowering laughter in my mind
The meadow of poppy-red seats stare through the dark
The lights sharpen from their soft glow
And regroup as piercing arrows
Stripping me down
Back to my soul
I questioned why the others left
(and they question why I stay)
Neither are sure if it's through choice, or truth
Living in this dead theatre
Categories:
guignol, imagination, life, mystery, nostalgia,
Form: I do not know?