Quite often unrecognized
as poetry, your scribbles
embrace the world
oblivious of the stale tenets
of prosody you must
write on,
draw from the most
ancient of wells,
draw on and on till
the water shows brown,
brown of dregs,
brown of sediment,
brown of the blood
coagulating in
the lab-bound syringes.
Continents pull up their
drawbridges, they do not
expect a ruler or even
political dignitaries to pass.
They wait for you to enter,
bare feet falling, lighter
than a yellow leaf’s falling
in the autumn breeze,
your breath faintly fluttering
like moth wings among the bloom,
you serve honey disguised
as some kind of lethal poison
its effect takes a long while
delayed reaction. It is
the distant rumble
of a fevered volcano.