Noet

This is not a poem.
It does not rhyme.
it does not speak
to the soul
which by now has been sold
and rented,
or to the heart
by now broken
and fragmented,
or to the mind
presently twisted, deranged
and demented.

These are not words,
for they are mute,
and are incoherent.
What you are reading is rhythmless,
atonal noise.
A clanging
grinding
shrieking
silence of meaning.
Ruddy ruckus of zero substance.

No images can be summoned.
They are as barren as can be imagined
cracked, dry, deserts atop mountains of crumbling cliches
gray with death
gangrenous grief

You will not listen
I will not speak
you do not care
I admit no defeat
a bear breathes mountain air

100 little doves take flight
the river continues to run
the sun swallows the night


This is not a poem.
It does not rhyme.

This is not a poem,
It does not speak.