Sitting in geometric rows,
Of flesh and blood and mind.
Is the hope we long to know,
The creative ties that bind
But the sterility of the surfaces.
And continuity of the air
Refuses to nourish the poet.
It clouds their sharpened stare
The micromanaging of minds
And the constant pursuit of perfection.
Is leaving the erratic writer behind
Removing creative insurrection
A hundred thousand Odysseys
Within a hundred minds
That will never see the light of day
Because their inward flame resigns
This is not from lack of will
Or lack of passion for their skill
But because they are told to refine
The decadence to which they are inclined
And in the refinement of their gems
It somehow loses sheen
Because it is contrived in its beauty
And its humility not seen
The very human frailty
That every writer does employ
To make every reader explore the truth
Is blackening their joy
Poets more than anyone
Cannot stagnate for long
Unless they chose to forever mute
Their choral, floating song
