1rivers with our viscious maws -
we're drawing poetry from beauty
rocks and relics spoiling
southbound currents carry them to sea -
we speak and write their secrets
And all of this in effort to
explain our righteous cause,
recalibrate the meaning that has
whithered from the walls
because once when it was cities
where we'd suck our stories from,
philosophers were painters.
Philosophy was painted
to the canvas of our mind
and now we're writing secrets
we were hammered with subliminally.
Sure assures our fathers that
they sure do know our heads,
emotional and proper,
valorous cancer/suicide playwrites and
river-sucking poets.
A death-drawing, doom-saying sermon claims
chaos coming - hold it in.
Sure we're only human
only human in our ways
so we're only fleeting beings,
fleeting being our routine,
seems we're just proclaiming
just proclaiming our progression
Seems we're simply speaking.
Seems we're all words and no poets.