Written by Blake Kay
You give
no thought
to thought,
the eloquence of mind
instead
made prisoner
to the surface
of all things,
surface of arrogance,
and
upon apron stand,
the thrust
of your poetry
is
“Hear me with your eyes!”
“Understand me not in reason,
but know me in recognition
of my empty clay,
adorned in vapid guise,
counterfeit blood
and my own
indulgence!”;
For, when verse
is no longer
sung from heart
and mind;
For, when seeds
of language
are weaponized
by fear
of inconsequence,
no roots grow,
no blossom reached,
only sickly, blackened tendrils
withered and wilted,
the poetry is dead.
The poet is dead.
Text © Blake Kay
*
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