Canto IV
Write 'til Your Fingers Bleed
c. 2019, Olan L. Smith
Poets of life, write until your fingers bleed, 'til you tears
Turn red, and until your mind fades into slumber where
Your muse will refresh you with new words, new stories
This era needs you, your wisdom, your direction, and your
Hope. Poets of blood give themselves to the bone, to
The marrow; fills the hallow places. We are needed
To sustain a moral compass in the darkness of the Naked King,
Who sits on his inverted throne; head first, a grin,
And an orange hued face. He has become the beast,
With the marking of Satan. How such a man would rise
To power is beyond comprehension; Hitler would
Be impressed with the Naked King's ignorance.
Dear mother, dear father; it is best you are dead as to
Witness such a sight, in this land of freedom, and balance
Of power. Alas, who am I but the lonely poet who sits
In awe of a world he does not recognize. Has time passed
Me that my words are no longer heard in the present?
Must one die to be heard more, to be heard to the furthest
Reaches of the globe. Alinda, speak to me; fill my mind
With your words. You taught me your ways, and your thoughts
As I sat at your feet. You saved me from mediocrity,
Encouraged me to speak beyond by grasp of things only
The wisest could understand, I am your tool in this world.
Write poets of light, of blood, of life, of the grave; write.
--------