I tried to sing a song
Back through the ages,
But was muted by a gash of the vocal chord
Caused by late nights of screaming at pen-slashed pages,
And swallowing Poetry’s double-edged sword.
See, the dichotomy of Poetry is one of treachery and passion;
Hidden ‘neath delicate diction and recitation of an eccentric fashion.
For Poetry can swell within a smile, or cause a bit of laughter,
But Poetry reminds you that there’s no obtaining what you’re after.
It’s the precious squeaks of kitten sneezes, and lil’ puppydog hiccups;
And Poetry is the hopless screams of people being dragged behind pickups.
It’s the fresh scent of lilacs growing free in the Albanian lowland;
But it also resonates the sound of Hitler’s tanks pulverizing the people of Poland.
Poetry is the euphoric release of today’s worlds weight from your weary shoulders;
Alas, its also the mutated minds of kidnapped child soldiers.
It’s the most ethereal silk sold in an Ottoman bazaar;
All the while, being the iron fist of a ruthless Russian Czar.
It’s the power to slow the sun, shield lustful night from break of day;
But Poetry is also the wall of burning death that buried all Pompeii.
Every line is just a dimple and a grin on the face of your hearts desire;
It’s the smoke that gags and chokes you while you’re devoured by the fire.
Poetry can be the voice of the people that brings revolution to the nation;
It’s an Irish mother strangling her child to save it from starvation.
Once I trusted in a man who said that Poetry is a ring of sweet honey,
To mask the taste of the wicked world, which is indeed true;
But I’d hack off my hands, sell my soul, burn all my photographs and money
To tell that liar Lucretius –
That Poetry is the bitter medicine, too.