Above it All
I’ll write of roses never touched
that fade in wilt, then praise their hue,
and though their rot perfumes my metaphors,
I’ll never stoop to caress their blooms,
and as rivers choke on oil and bone,
with caustic ink I’ll hail their shimmer,
ignoring the discarded gluttony lining their shores,
scribing only the poetic cadence of their flow,
and when cities burn, I’ll describe their walls descending,
and as ash clings to their children, I’ll write of their silhouettes,
believing war can be explained in words - but it can’t
though still, I sing of them in sonnets,
and as kings and demigods devour what’s left of us,
I’ll praise their suits, their appetites,
as they torch the ground with golden tongues
and I’ll quote their grandiose while whispering curses in rhyme,
and as a woman weeps in foreign dust,
I’ll call her symbolic, emotive, for misery
makes a lovely metaphor when properly penned
and I’ll write of it, then move on before I feel,
and I’ll use God like I use gold,
thin leafed and brandished, though not to be touched.
I will not pray, I will not flinch,
for holiness reads well,
and as the sky collapses, black with smoke,
I’ll call it dusk -pretending,
breathing through filters to scrub the wind,
keeping my voice clear and my hands clean,
and above it all I’ll sip and scribble,
and as the world burns I will call it art,
I will have saved nothing, I will have served no one,
but with words, I will make it all beautiful.
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2025
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