Dear, word benders;
Conductors of winds and those who tai, chi’s as spirits immensely splendor.
Grand daughters of hieroglyphics and sons of wonder.
Gusts carriers with wings to blow aloof anything fender.
Dear, stained follicles of the word.
Guardians of the now provoked art work.
It now seems like everyone recites,
Cascading writings before rituals, just to push a pen into paper and expect the universe to collide.m
This is a pledge to resist.
Served to retreat from any malfunction of gist.
This is a plea that insists on purposeful writings
And growth on the elites.
Dear poetry,
You have served me well for all these decades
but now it seems our home is filled with friends estranged,
a legion of souls who cannot seed the truth that looms across valley’s of our memory lanes.
I have seen them,
Fairies forging signatures of the sun,
Laymen claiming names of God
taking a breath of life with nothing to be consumed in their lungs.
I’ve seen them,
Spineless bastards said to have no skeletons in their closets yet their secrets are extremely blunt.
They haven’t tasted the word on their slippery tongues,
Neither have they worn shoes of children of the Sun.
The strength of a running river is not worth their shoulders.
Non of their breathes have kissed our souls yet their recitals are treated as unbogus
They now claim rain drops on their shoulders, silkly clover.
Dear, poets.
This title only follows names of servants appointed,
Those anointed with the alexia before birth was concocted.
Dear, prophets.
Bestow your positions and own up your word and sound.
Fill your shoes.
Dust off your garments and brass your crowns.
It is time…
