a poem is a sermon
So much of life is at the edge,
stuck on the stoop or on the ledge;
just talking to hear our voice speak,
we shout to stop appearing weak.
We gather friends around ourselves
from minions, imps, and fellow elves;
and muddle through from week to week.
We shout to stop appearing weak.
When history’s sad lessons fail to find their place in memory’s halls and social constructs name their grail progress alone, foundations fall. Progress to where, and at what cost? The road to ruin remains paved, while freedom’s edifice is lost and those who sheltered there, now slaves caught in the rubble, cannot run nor find […]
Now to the Doldrums we have come, our sails gone limp, weighed down and still, and not a breath of wind is left to draw from old Poseidon’s lungs. The brackish air insults what brawn we strain to heave against the oars to gain an inch or two, no more, while taunting, sweltered hours crawl. […]