It seemed as though my verse had gone;
I hadn’t rhymed in far too long
He took my words and killed them, see;
And then, there was no poetry.
No stanzas came, no stories nor;
All victim to my saboteur
My words no longer coursed through blood;
For what is poetry, sans love?
Of pen and ink: my paper broke;
Of diction: nary a word was spoke.
CM
Universes ago, no ticking constraints existed:
Time, an invented partner for space
Appeasing and squeezing, tock-by-tock
Manufactured gods, divine excuses for humanunkind
One landmass, on one secular orb
Anyone could see it was Good.
The requirement of Openness took thought:
Taking flight, sprouting wings, thinkstuff soared.
Into existence came something from nothing
Sixes and sevens eighted themselves infinitely;
Entire paths crossed on that loop
Somewhen eternal, near nothingness became allstuff.
Godlessness became the new old way
We infected plagues with zesty pestilence
Accidents were rewound and hate unhappened
Death went, unless by nature’s kindness
Old, optional, terminated, cheap and free
This would be our infinity, squared.
Rank planets oozed, blood splats seeped.
Old mould decayed in a day
New muses chose prose for
immortality
Perception’s edge shielded and shelved plans
Nothing doing, no carrots, no waiting
Veni, Vidi, Vici, in Saecula Saeculorum.
Third person passive past words went
You don’t like second, too tense
Literary narratives and linear timelines spent
Bulksome, lengthy word counts redundantly done
All I have now is me:
My own primary, secondary, tertiary person.
Nearing endness, I float to escape
With Eternal words booked, I board
In my everwhere, there’s no nothingness
Stars and univi belong to me
Staccato sensations from beautifully musical storybooks
Now this: Pain Over, Starlight – Home.
A poet’s shattered soul reacts to crumpled men with words intact
Recalling lies as glory folds, one verse – yet many stories told:
Our Wilfred said they’d cursed through sludge, towards their distant rest they’d trudged
And Wilfred’s men had lost their boots but limped on, blind, deaf to the hoots
There, Wilfred saw a hanging face – as death came to his writing-place
So we could read -at every jolt- of gargled blood to our revolt
If Wilfred knew – if he could see -dead men survived by poetry
What would he say – and would he be surprised his words adored by me?
Adored by age, revered by youth, for hitherto-unspoken truth.
If he were now – if he were here, would Wilfred to the world endear?
Or is it likelier he’d see: the sale of arms, cash weaponry?
And then the fight to stop it all, this great divide as countries fall?
Perhaps for now, hypocrisy – humanity’s mobocracy:
And as he rhymes of this or that, he’d write: Manus Manum Lavat.
Liberate Tutemet 