THE RELUCTANT POET
I'm the reluctant poet; there is much to say, yet I sit silently, lips pursed
Frozen in time, while thoughts portage the endless labyrinth of the mind
at speeds un-calculatable, lost in the infinite network of timelines,
past and future consciousness
Surely by now, everything has been said by those with their predictions, theries,
die-sections, bye-sections, mandates, criticism, quantinized, sterilized opinions.
Where is my small voice to be heard amid the babble of a civilization so vast,
so numerable, so near- sighted, so deaf, so greedy, so intelligent, im-moral
So i sit and dream of a communique' a universal language for the masses
A voice to be heard, a voice to speak for all the little voices, frozen, imprisoned,
meek, oppressed; a voice longing to be heard, just once above the rest.
An emotion yet to be felt.
I'm the reluctant poet, too cadaverous to cast out the careworn, eroded net
into the sea of predatious, sightless, razor-lipped entropic carnivoire.
Too content, agencies, recluse. Safe in my apocalyptic space
warm in my superstructure of isolation
Deaf from the shadows, blind from the tyrannical drums
Under the blanket of the blood of the sewn lips
I hide, ashamed, defused in the odious, unspoken enigma