what do poets know, dusted
by specks of time, searching
for that missing sublime?
for all we know, our verses
get strewn like forgettable seeds
by winds alien to wisdom.
for all we know, our lyrics
run aground on shallow banks
battered by a textual tempest
that suffocates love.
poets know they are relevant
when the going gets tough,
when actions are not enough
when only heartwords
can create true faith.
poets know they are needed
when politics belittle reason.
poets know they are essential
in the most unfelt season.
what do poets know, caressed
by hints of infinity, exploring
ancient crevasses unmapped?
for all we know, our sonnets
get tossed like heaps of rubbish
along the heartless highway
to collective apocalypse.
for all we know, our iambic pentameters
crash headlong into barren walls
pushed by a hailstorm that breeds hatred.
poets know they are truly special
when they are mistaken
for being ill-natured.
