We’re All Sick Poets in the End

tree of spacetime

by k. shawn edgar

We’re All Sick Poets in the End

÷

We, of the bevelled moan

morning to mourning

our creature cries

round all angles

into slopes

÷

Is this our due?

Our doing?

÷

From the first letter

we come out of each other

as contractions of whole words

sounds butting heads with mumbles

into personalized slang glee passing

through lucid communal tomes

adding, subtracting, or multiplying

our digits and tongues—lips full blown

÷

To the sky, our dream realm, words

were our first deep-space travelers

We released each syllable as a canary

through caves flashing with lights

before a human foot fell forward

A brave caution in the beginning

a tree-like adventurousness too

growing up from long dead bones

but like a skeleton, this decays

into a cautionary tale meant to

inhibit instead of inspire dreams

÷

As the cutting edge becomes blunted

stubborn ripples build to white noise

a backwash of surely echos miming truth

÷

In the end these hardened weary words

are more important than the play of ideas

The communal tomes collapse into stylized

babble as we eulogize ourselves off cliffs

÷

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “We’re All Sick Poets in the End

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s