Our words are full of lies,
we poets, we wordsmiths,
We cunning linguists.
We prosper little,
But hold hope in history,
remembering names like lovers:
The flamboyant philanderer,
the Bohemian vagabond,
The honored Laureate.
We prosper little and shake
our fists at the stars
as if the elements held interest in our art,
As if time could vindicate our efforts,
As if an opened vein could bleed us back to life.
Only the stars know the pure poetry we deny.
Only the stars and the rotating wheel we turn on.
Only the stars and the mathematical moons and flowers.
The world we know is outside the realm
We embrace our suffering and sing our
misery to the sky while a greater music overtakes our song and is heard by the
throngs and the angels.