Ars Poetica III

Poetry is

.

dead…

.

The roses, buried beneath a million lines

the headstone, cheapened by rhyme

.

The minister looks tired

the families, in shock

the sailors, moored

the lovers, ambivalent

the forest, a forest

on fire

.

The seed of sublimity

shucked by cynics

murmuring beneath academic umbrellas

“roses are cliché”

“the moon is cliché”

“love is cliché… is cliché…”

.

They recursively sharpen their cutting-edge beatitudes

on worship for that dread, reductive desire to advance

to upgrade

to divide

that causes even poets

to numb their minds

.

to forget

.

to breathe

.

Have you ever been beaten by God?

Have you cut your heart on a flower

while you clamored naked through the tide?

Have you wept beneath the weight of the moon—

in wake of a lover?

.

You might not have understood in college—

roses were chosen for a reason

their shape holds secrets

that only lovers know

wrapped in sheets

whispering

sweet things

.

divulging

thoughts

dreams

fears

everything

.

We are fragments of the beauty we betray

.

Go dance in desert

sing

synchronize with the drum

feel your body change

tighten

turn

thrum—

.

and pray for rain…

.

9/24/24