Word Song

Here is a poem
that will never be read
It will never be saved
It will never be quoted
It will never be remembered
Unless you invalidate it

Insist it to exist
and try and express
the unexpressable

Epics of war-ravaged lands
Soul as steel, and thoughts as blades
Fire and smoke drifting in the wind
and mingling with the howls of the dying
Lines blurring together so long and thick
to deceive, but to reveal
a map to an inner landscape

To see if the mind can leap
Making and seeing
sense of nonsense
patterns in chaos
Hoping to see a clear line
glistening inside of a tangled web

Endless loops scrawled
Chewed pencils and pens
thin lines following each other
running, running, running on paper
to a freedom that isn’t there

Illusion masks
empty projections
couched in safe descriptions
of sensations of senses
impressions of images
sculpted in sentences
wrought in words

references
to one thing or another
until it makes you just wonder

Are we all just echoes of our own experiences?

Sophisticated monkey-parrots so smart
that the constant regurgitating and reflecting
has fooled us into thinking
that our thoughts are original?
That we really created them ourselves?

Why, we must be gods!

All the sound and fury
really is nothing
meaning is like shards
of broken mirrors
in shattered frames

Poems are sheet music
for the orchestra inside

Every performance unique.