Poems grew half-unraised, words like flesh,
Until father time and mother author brought unrevised death,
The written word.
Every poet since then is a carrion-bird,
Consuming old poems to power fanciful flights,
Canon digesting dead bards to resemble new life.
Today we soar just high enough to think we've escaped
Our garbage-eating ordinariness,
Just high enough to base friendships
On a mutual preference for weirdness
Over the alternative.
Finally got to reading this. Love it. :D
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