A Minor Poet’s Ghost

Rainbows are falling down to earth, but
In your uncultured sepulchre you lie like a log,
Fake prophet.
If only some torturer would come
And skin your arms to the bone would you bother
To write how much it hurts. But then, what arms?
And right now, I ask: What heart?
With what heart
Can you bear any stories to share that carry weight?
You’re meant to be a ghost. A footnote some student
Hunkered in the library will some day glaze over
And fall asleep, drooling on right were your words
Barely fit the page.
Or you can rage right now
And make something of yourself, but you’d rather
Look at sedentary people argue, and imagine
How better you are than them all.
And that’s
The biggest comedy of them all.

Poetry by Sameen
Read 41 times
Written on 2022-09-23 at 12:46

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