He that will the world
remould
should first himself recast.

Out the cot
man goes
to return
to the coffin.

WHY   You did not like my itchy brains
But i will scratch yours
if you scratch mine.

Why is it so
                   You make me feel like
                                                       I was not   T  H  E  R  E
when  it is clear,  as day    I    W  A  S
                   Now you make me feel
                                                       Like I am an astra nought
                   Third man on a moon.
I am the one    T  H  A  T       W   A   S.
                                                      I was not knowing.

Love has killed
m'heart,
which should have made
it
live.

Love its essence doth change
becoming sweetened,
mellow with age.

Words set to music
give the body tonic--
poetic melody:

rhymes, rhythms, caesuras,
meters, beats, stanzas
and envoys
in use.

Making millions of dollars
off an album,
platinum
pop stars:

hounded by paparazzi,
landed in a Jaccuzi;
deified are poets--

pursued by Muse's mustang
midst the prairies
of inspiration
trotting.

Poetry draws no pretty penny,
prizes like the Nobel
praise.

Mummy poetry is exhaling
in the lyrical pantheon
of music.

How art
thou, dear heart?

Well. Praise
God, no ill-feelings.