Us poets need come again and again.
Stick brooms in hand we sweep
the dirt that gathers when
we live a dream as we sleep.
A rogue wave on a calm sea
we say the same thing, time and time again;
stand before us fearless and be free
if not, away with you who’d dare pretend!
The clock ticks and we dance its demands.
Round and round, we embrace and go
little sparks obeying life’s light commands
until the music stops and we know
our story is over and never will be told.
Only for us poets in rage
to compress it all to gold.
