Centuries on, and we still have

Starved artists, living; worlds apart

de Quincey, Poe, even Keats whose

Eloquent poetics embroil girls’

Fancy, pulsing hearts – savoured

Reversed financial schematics

 

Poetry still, as yet, has fair way

To go; life’s social media

Fortress retains ignorance, no care

Toward commerce, nor linguistic flow

There’s – without doubt – business, to behold

Word of mouth; balanced astuteness

Warrants liquid gold, empowered air

We surely must breathe, when; nostrils flare

Inhalation increases speed

To wit, tidy metaphors are sold

Composed, verbose lyric entertainment

Quickens conversation, lewd speech

Of a kind bards teach, and scholars invent

 

 

… she cleverly came to me in a dream, last night; even though I had promised to be extra-vigilant.  Maybe anxiety got the best in-house cream, with slight shifts through sorrow and illicit contraband.  I had sought through many surrendered bouts of broken meditation, failing to produce an ounce of truth.  In my dream with plundered shouts of spoken inspiration, I startled – as a youth – without a ream to pay for my deliberation.  Then she was gone – without a bye, or coming from.  I was left looking for Poesy and again, she was gone.  And I’m left, abandoned in delirious frenzy.

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