The great pretentious act of our poets,
Is to believe every line's scripture,
For they're painters with black and white pallets
Simply putting one word with another.
They're lyricists without melody,
But they have one refined, silver blade,
That cuts to the heart, and it's memory.
Universal tides collapsing to glades,
Which can be explored and made beautiful
Not because every stone's overturned,
Not because wisdom nor knowledge make it full,
But by the will that says "linger on these words."
To peel moss from the grave, to burn away
Ash from the corpse, and hear what they've to say.