Poetry

Poetry

Is for better or for worse.
The train has arrived,
You have left the station.
Occupation-wise
There is monetary gain,
Momentary fame—
If you’re lucky—posthumously.
It keeps you awake at night.
You clamber for
And hoard
Scraps of paper. At night you rise
Among melting dreams.
There is a railroad track, a chicken coup.
An evening sunset, a morning monsoon.
A water buffalo is cleaved in half.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
A former stick, a yellow-lipped Krait,
Glides through manioc.

You ask yourself: is this real?
Thunder answers,
A bell answers,
Poetry answers—all one long peal
like a train whistle through a long tunnel
And there is no appeal and no recourse
But to press on in the dark,
Press on or forever hold your peace.

© Oct 21, 2013 by UT2

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