ON POETS (AND LIARS)

Poets preach lies, twisted by rhyme,

Like soldiers praying for peace, shattered bones; pieces.

What’s unholy consumed, that which is wholly consummat’d,

The flood of heaven’s tears which makes fools of fear.

To live, to die, a life of empty promises,

Like chalices hell-bent on the nerves of fallacies,

Driven mad in manner, no matter to speak

on for martyrs made of satyrs be satire,

Twisted tongue twisters, trampling thoughts,

Rambling random reverberations,

How serendipitous!

What hamlet beyond the grave old shrill

Misty mountain magics in the air

Abstruse abstractions, obstructing observations,

That which we aim our bards,

Or forever mark our peace.

Es tu Brute? Has Cassius flown?

Antony won! Marco Polo’s shown,

A hurly burly done, battle lost and won.

Should we pity Caesar e’en so?

Or Hercules, bent on his master’s trees,

Broken man, we may be,

Though my soul, forever mine, not thee.

Poets preach lies, may I begin mine?

Like a magpie’s deceit, working the streets,

Broken fires, empty bottles, decrying defeat,

Misfortuned fools to be the subject of my torture,

The never-ending object of my desire,

And they themselves, the burden of my passioned presence, my undying emotion.

What sparks may light a fire,

The divine showers of ire,

That which we may call love for one,

Then never posed for, to be done.

What’s wise is wiser still, silenced by time

Philosophers speak philosophical crimes,

Fools foolisher still, unhinge the eyes,

Speak freely. Then, die.

What’s sealed and locked, the primrose path,

Hidden behind walls of hell, the last laugh,

With a final breath and one last cry,

I speak to you, forever goodbye.

Twisted by rhyme,

By verse, line by line.

Plato: Love is a serious mental disease.