Poetry
is where
religion is a
heresy used by
the iambic heretic

a crusade where wits
and words play games
and
untamed by the wilds
of time
each soul it takes
takes
on the mantle,
rhyme
becomes the canticle
the poet thus
the crucible.

We are feted,

we'll still burn in the fire
or be buried
in
Westminster Abbey
an
ornate tomb
next to the choir.

Chaucer
Donne
Thomas
live on and
yet they're
gone
a million million poets more
arrive to flout the writings
Luther
nailed upon the door
only we remain
the spoken tincture
which you use to ease
the pain.

Unrecognised?
I see the signs
In the dull eyes
of another busy
day