Who said poetry is a gift?
Who said it does not arise out of
conviction,
out of
grief,
the purest form of misery
which we have ever tasted?
And which of you,
if I call her name
will follow me into those places
into dark chasms
and caverns
where shadows do not meet the day?
If this is
the moment of decision
why do I stand alone?
Ask me for
the meaning of words
and I will not know
until they are spoken -
ask me about the art -
I will not answer
till the paint brush is dry.
And on the outside
Society still beckons
bragging of her Glory
begging us to join in on
the festivities.
Are we not victims
gazing on
from the comfort of our cages -
mesmerized,
drunk with love,
as if this place
had actually been
offered
to us?
Or shall we change our minds?
Shall we stand up
when the parade goes past
a parade of same same same
and raise our voices
to Defy?
Shall we choose Different
in this sea of Sames?
The crooked way,
the way they mock
the way that is tired
and lonesome?
Shall we abandon
this romance for the bread
in search of water
to quench our thirst?
Shall we chase a thing
so illusive
into the shadows
a ribbon in the dark
hoping for a glint of sunlight
at the end of the road?
Or shall we simply
feast upon Glory
until our brains fester
inside our own skulls?
Shall we fall in line
or shall we
Defy?
I dare to imagine
that both groups will be surprised
by what they find awaiting them
on the other side.
