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.

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