There is nough so fair or ought so glum as word in print, prose or poetry,
Nothing harder won or bitter swon as a pill laced with poison.
The writer knows that his work carries less weight than the ink of his print,
Poison pen be it, subsistence by thought alone a long gone dream.
Oft gang aft aglay, even as we pray, wish and hope.
Wry smiles and token gestures seal naught but the contract,
empty of pennies as thy purse brims with hope.
Be here men and women, the thoughts of the many,
Dashed upon the rock of modern prose poetry.
Sinking further into a cold hearted coffin, nay thought spared for the writer.
Indifference strikes the many as disease did carry,
Those weakest, those first that voiced their opinion, on their shoulders be it.
Even as we swim, current against tide, sway even as we may
Hold our heads high –
Even as our murky scribblings and manuscripts –
Sink beneath the wave of indolence, of innocence, of ignorant hearted bliss. (Try not).
I type these words with blood between my fingers,
Flowing over knuckle, bone and skin.
We have denied the value of the writer even as we write ourselves,
We have paid a penny more for our open grave.
Individual we stand,
But communal we fall.