Poet No More

The poet androgynous,
not defined by
how you
refer
to he or her;

committing to quirk,
and the
quarks we observe in
side the science
of words.

Gravity hurts yet
we always
find firm
footing when
the world is not
looking.

A breakthrough between
you and I is
all I can
describe
hearing
diatribes on
progress.

The poet is a
promise from
honesty to
falsehoods that the
good of this world has
gone,
and we’re
expected to
survive on

subverted shoulders,
like a boulder trying
to balance out before
an avalanche

of hate
hubris
and heartfelt
illusions we
were meant to dance on
its behalf.

I’m not a poet but
a sprite,
not a wordsmith but
wight of dead
phonic
follicles,

volatile in all the ways
reincarnation failed to
provide.

I’m a metaphor for
mice who
wish to be
elephants,
an unpaid rent which
wished to be owned.

We are
not poets at all, but
typewritten rites for
sore eyes,
and if I must die to etch eternal,
then that is the one
rule I will
choose to defy.

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