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Poets. Poets. Poets. Gone
are the griots,
the troubadours,
and sage muses
who gave life to rainbows,
winds, suns and moons.
Sepulchered has become the word;
entombed in the womb of mind—
waiting its timed, spoken resurrection.
Unsung melodies.
Your utterances
have been wall papered;
hidden and no longer seen;
like things gone
out of style: Deleted.
Informing lyrics
have gone to rainless clouds;
replaced by those craving
entertainment.
Yet duty bound you are—
You Shepherds
of the lexis flock.
Indeed, even resurrection
is timed: timed in due season.
Your voices they may silence;
your mind they cannot.
Crucified words are resurrected
in echoes—Echoes whispering—
Whispering in winds of time; time
ticking to due season. The creator‘s
gospels are—will always be—poetically:
words of disciples dripping liberating truths.
