The words flow—
a river running endlessly,
rushing through rapids of bias,
crashing down cataracts of prejudice.
The cat’s out—
out of the bag it leaps.
See that wild, spotted thing?
It’s called poetry.
The beans spill—
tumble from the plates of the young,
passed hand to hand,
from youth to age—
never the reverse.
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 2:57 PM UTC
The words flow—
a river running endlessly,
rushing through rapids of bias,
crashing down cataracts of prejudice.
The cat’s out—
out of the bag it leaps.
See that wild, spotted thing?
It’s called poetry.
The beans spill—
tumble from the plates of the young,
passed hand to hand,
from youth to age—
never the reverse.
