Poets in connection

Poets in connection

Arts, and abstraction

There are too few keys

But many locks.

Words barter a way out

Losing potency

In the struggle to engage.

The world is hostile

To the many

Who would be whole.

Very few survive unscathed,

There are no shortcuts

To redemption

Blood loss is inevitable.

Beading on polished tables

Walnut and grain

Sticky with sweat and the stain

Of irreversible decline.

We all die slowly

From within

The first cuts begin as lifelines.

Every time we try

To make sense of injustice

There is inadequacy.

The language we use

Is dead

There are no translations

Available at this time.

Nothing said

Is ever fully known

Even as the ink dries

The moment of delivery

Has rendered its truth

To be a lie.

I write in darkness

As in daylight

There is nothing

Left of you to see.