poetry

perhaps, a poet

blood-fist anarchy
might serve us
more honestly
than love, children
than greedy gods
my progeny
je suis charlie
they chanted
and screamed
still, the names
the lonely stares
freed–
this spinning chalk-circle
riding stained-paper ships
on spilled-crimson rivers
among them
perhaps
a poet
aye, perhaps–
the last
perhaps
the best
perhaps
the only
among them
perhaps
a teacher
perhaps
a prophet
perhaps
a lover, true

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Eric

I've come to write.

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