It’s time to write a poem she said

 

Opened front doors forecast dread

Still lighter than a darksome home

 

Pecking naive transformation

Wounded like a crossing guard

She bangs her chest in absolution

 

What about this fucking poem

She screams in flightless fury

Searching for the nowhere compass

Redirecting dreams unknown

 

Her small arms reach familiar height

Leaves bloodied reason in the lane

The child becomes the ageless poet

Picks off attackers in lyric refrain

Never to set false hearts alight

 

Mustering truth among the shards

Re-made from broken arrows shot

She bangs her chest again with conviction

Renounces steps from false Camelot

Humored forever she follows intention

Escaping from the thumbless bard

 

Kneels and pries her uncorked anger

From a fully loaded glass of wine

The bag of lies they offered her

Full of listless danger tricks

Transparent as their unsound friendship

Returned forever their shipment of lies

A poem arrives a welcome sign

 

Dropping words in her once barren lap

A prayer to the end of everything

Depends on the sender

And the poet who believes 

Fully christened urges to rend 

Clarified fury on liars and thieves

She pens in silence her atheist prayers 

In a rarefied notebook to pain

 

They will force her inner child exposed

In their foul-smelling bunker of lies

Slowly invading the song of the poet

Wallowing then in spineless endurance

Like lice in the hair or cancerous starlings 

She paws the earth a misread boar 

Transitioned out of unbending fury

Front door knocker heralds dread

Winged doves arrive instead

 

It’s time to write a poem she said

 

nyc

1.3.23