a thing, true

There’d been a time when men spoke as oracles, carving night’s obsidian into black-winged angels with their words’ intricate precision, each fine syllable spilled of their rotten-tooth mouths, poetry, the teeming spit glistening upon the swollen round of their cankerous lips, their poems, incarnate, swelling with life, swimming with notions, gestating before born; we live in the mossy, crimson shadows of their brutal and artful hearts, lovers– we, not poets– in these decades of haste, but small men, trifling blasphemers, on most days. Tho on those rare evenings, magical, on those days, particularly blessed, on those mornings, warm and glorious, we might still recall their tall spirits, we might write a poem– a thing worth remembering, a thing bolder than our vanity, a thing, true, whispered into the lonesome void of another soul.

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