poetry

myth of the poet

By heralding horn, within fable’s adorn, borne drifting in tales, the myth of the poet, exhumed, is exhaled. While poets hold the hand of god, defiled, we lesser beasts feast on pieced facade. Cloaked in golden rolls of smoke, rhymes, baroque, elope within covetous words bespoke.

Imposters, marauders, lead royal maidens to spoil’s slaughter. Each, as each loses their head, bled crimson-red by aureate shards, learns the hard lesson of mere artful bards, having been misled. The poets are known, after the poets are dead.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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