Poets of the Night

I know you long to see me
plant myself in a field of melamine roses,
face always toward the sun,
my mind drinking from the fount of who cares;
but I’ve a heart baptized in terror,
sanctified in the darker side
of human will

it’s the poets of the night,
who sound reveille for me,
with their words of brutal truth,
shot forth as flaming arrows
to pierce the marshmallow skies,
dripping apathy on the heart,
syllable by syllable,
in rheumatic rhyme

for you, it’s a sadness,
a weight unmanageable;
for me, simply time served
in the hell of life’s reality,
in hot pursuit of true liberation –
the soul of real celebration

27 thoughts on “Poets of the Night

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