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A Little Irreverence
We poets
are preoccupied
obsessed
with the thoughts
poking around
inside ourselves.
And reveling and revealing
the cracks along
our shelves.
Picking at the rare roast
before it is finally done.
Our lives somewhat over
our todays have ended
but tomorrow's not begun.
Self-flagellation
self-reproach
the ever present roaches
revealing the clutter
under the nails of our
thoughts.
Why do we cash the
ticket in early as a kind of
dying wish?
To be cast over the waters
of the ancients like the guts
of a long dead fish?
Our motivations hazy
and unclear
though the words and our purpose
be indelible.
The hubris of the poet
is quite swell-able.
So with our words
we defy
eternity.
Copyright September 20, 2011
All Rights Reserved By the Author, Herself
Melissa A Howells Meloo of Tilt-a-World
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