Melodies
mumbled through the corrosive
coating of plastic
pieces jammed directly into
damaged ear drums.
Songs
strained across beats
berating the mesmerized
mentality of awesome into the
auto-tuned automatons.
Notes
numbingly droned on rhythms
righteous in their
thinking that all problems are
part of the present past.
Words
are what brings the perfunctory lives of
people to a stop,
singularly holding onto
hell in lines and
living in the storing
of stories for
future generations to remember,
regardless of race gender or class,
creed religion or background.
Poetry, the
truly precious example of
earnest men and women
wearing their lives on paper
lined suits
strengthened by the emotional bodies
broken and bled for ink and
imagery, is capable of
capturing the base of humanity while
hearkening to the Immortal and his
ill-mentioned brother, is made
material by man and
meaning more to each whom
enter the world left
when they began, is
perfection without ever needing to
win, is love
without ever having to
hear the other speak, is everlasting and forever
evolving just as
all life does.