sloppily pushed out doors,
drunken saviours stagger on,
wandering through empty streets,
spinning memories repeat like a song,
pouring their guts out,
spilling their guts into trash cans,
dumpsters and rusty sewer grates,
trying to connect to someone,
failing to connect,
trying to connect to themselves,
trying to connect the broken-in-two-Self,
but all they got is those preachers,
those thoughtless,
miserable preachers,
dividing,
and dividing,
and dividing,
when the world steps out on you,
a poet may step in,
because as the world begins to end,
a poet gets ready to begin.
4 comments:
You're right Dox. Poiesis, as the Greeks knew, is the "making". And it can be restorative.
Good stuff.
It is understood by few, the dark side of human nature. You shine a light on it in this poem. Nice.
HP you are such an inspiration to me. Always write.
can one even connect these days?
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