Without poetry, we'd all
be chained to fences of time.
locked in,
torn apart,
played with by the
cosmic dance.

Don't get me wrong,
the poems can't
cure cancer, or heal the
lame dog's leg.
But, they might give
the ****** hope, and the
hobos a home.

Poetry tricks the mind
into seeing things,
like woolfhounds with
bagpipes playing an
Irish jig, far away from
the ferryman and his ride
across the river.

Without poetry, about now,
my skull
would be a home for beetles
and worms, turning
ever so slowly into
dust.