Your face is my shame -- My shame is in your face
In every vibration emanating from your fragile neck

In every word from underneath your favorite pen
Each character sent by your adept fingers

Inside every careful footfall and each minute molecule of air
Shared inevitably in our proximity -- Inertia of past affinity

Every reminder of your unforgettable eyes
Your distinct frame grazing my field of view

Your presence is my guilt -- They cannot be split
As such I fear our only recourse is forgetful distance

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.