no signs of glory
in this acquisition of flame.
You burn me bright,
senses under siege.
You're not crowned,
but you rule over
these stressed hammer
strings that labor
over a set of lungs
in need of the memory to breathe.
There are no kings,
no signs of glory in this acquisition of flame. You burn me bright, senses under siege. You're not crowned, but you rule over these stressed hammer strings that labor over a set of lungs in need of the memory to breathe. There is a glamourless reality to the art of the poetic line. Any simpleton with a wishy washy imagination can push together heart stopping metaphors. As a hopeless romantic of language, the poet is marked as the biggest fool of the trade. In a black market of having something to say, the poet engages in clandestine rituals of language every second we're not looking. These poor fools find beauty in inhaling oxidized air that breaks down our lungs with every intake for Christsake! They go around with notebooks, pens and knives, searching for the next line to imprint into the palm of your hand.
And you'll cradle it...hoping to keep a speck of beauty, cupped in the base of a naive heart taken by this being, the poet. No art = no city!
My soul lays homeless, laid out for sheep to trample and graze. I'm only vapors of a girl who once was scribbled on the bridge of life's nose. Without vowels and constants, the ground is nameless. I walk aimlessly among clumps of flesh, eyeballs, slabs of meat grotesquely topped with hair roots and toenails. Every moment the book lays closed, the pen stays still, equals the blend of a reality that has no indicators. The world is as uniformed as water, some parts cleaner than others, my eyes housed in the murkier parts, lips moving soundlessly against the tide of the United States of land-filled discontent, waiting for the ink to blot. |
Christina D. RodriguezA Latinx poet and entrepreneur who blogs about poetry, music, writing, and life. Archives
April 2019
Categories
All
Follow The Write Queen |