Poet’s Ark

Bastard of bards, wordsmith with no value in building arks,
how your heart travels newborn seas regardless.

First to mimic native language
after landfall, teach them
polysyllables
and learn
the land’s customs,
whereas soldiers contest,
and invasive species
repress old kingdoms.

And the wood ark should rot where it was
caught in the blink of an eye,
its bow suspended in the
sky by
toppled starboard trees,
crumbling on a canopy of ruin beneath.

To be forgotten,
an archaeological shrug, but for your
sentiment, the only terra nova left
when water raged
forty
nights.

Shipwrecked in a paradise that’d never
heard of floods, to think
they almost left you
behind for you could not build and would not
kill, were not four-legged and had
so little to offer
worth
preserving,
but for your wording of the world,
to capture existence at a standstill.

You made the
journey back,

your every
memory an
artefact the unimaginative will chase to their end.

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