Do I, I wonder,
Whilst I mangle thoughts in silence,
Poison intervening,
Slur further sinking,
Have my wicked way with words?
So that other people listen
So that I might be heard.
Could I emote?
Stir, rouse in triumph
So deftly, adeptly,
That I could lead the masses
From stalactactical catachasms
Towards the lightshine.
Could I extrude all the leeches
From every mind,
So that all might cast down their Dan Brown
And daywalk again.
Or are all the minds matted,
Every knotted core gnarled.
All beyond wormed,
To the very brain-cave turned.
So that if I roused myself to lift up
And speak,
Would I be cast out; spurned.
Would I be forced to lie in mass graves, in silence,
With the rest of the dead poets.
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