What is the role of the poet
In a world crippled by greed
Ruled and corrupted by might of arms
And diplomatic impunity?
A world where
Form has been perverted
Where beauty is seldom seen
Thriving within the decay.
What is the purpose
Of rhythmic, rhyming verses
Subjective, measured observations
About innocently metered nothings.
What good is poetry
In the belly that needs to be filled
Or in the unrecognizing, expired eyes
Of hope and a mother.
What is the point of trying to make clear
What so few seem to want to hear
So the poets perish in their graphite prisons
And the silence of the virgin page.
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