We are here in a secluded circle
listening to the tone of tension
in others poems fraught with livid lines
laying thin layers of onion skin emotions
on love hate and energetic romps
of madness
electric stimulation
of the mind bending magic
words as brittle as bone
laid in technical verses
so sensitively sweet to the ears
tuning fork.

We applaud gently
afraid to be left out
even if not fully comprehended
of the verses so read.

Whatever keeps us stuck
like magnets to ritual bloodshed
as flesh and blood coerce
these rites of passage. We are slaves
to convention.

Even as I defy the dance
of technical wizardry
my mind frazzles at the meaning
that some modern poetry
exhibits
and numbs me into silence.

I clap hollow.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 29 days ago