deaf and dumb
are the passers by,
the visitors as well
  
gladly would I fill their ears
with the wisdom of weary worries,
tedious torments, but I fry their meat,
smashing it until it screams  

the sizzling symphony wafts to my bulb  
stirring memories of the steer, the ****,
the beatific butchering, and
the killing fields of my youth

while others see only my hunched back  
and wait for their greasy grub
I ask why there is no atonement
no sorrowful song for the slaughter  
of young ones in faraway lands
who fell under the “noble” knife
or
the bovine beasts whose skulls
were there for the bar, that dropped
with sublime indifference
as it stilled their
magnificent silence

Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again