Because of the ever increasing cacophony ringing in my ears,
To kill the metaphors I holdeth dear
I put forth this poem as I try to obey
And hope They understand I can’t help burning away
Away with my words, fleeting like ashes,
I struggle to find me amidst all these crashes,
But maybe an A, nay just a B
Would give me some promise as I die on my knees
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For what is truer than a word
Who by its prowess solely, stood?
And amidst the hefty storm of man
Carved a meaning out of wood
And in this door he carved it in
A groove for grace to snuggle in
This word which allows for dark and bright
To meet, collide in its shapen eyes
Where beauty and tragedy wed forevermore
Lay at the feet of this wooden door
A word they say, but whom of power
On this word, is girded— flower.
And flower with her brazen tongue
Pulchritude and subterfuge in effigy hung
Interposed with confusion who makes
Mysterious
And lends my thoughts in minds
Delirious
That I may hide, and safely stay
Behind this flowered door allay
‘Til one day comes
And fear unbinds
And I open it up
Perhaps to life
But ah what haste have I to run
As my metaphors glitter among the sun
You call them poor and ask to kill
But the knife will penetrate my heart as well
And with prose They love and praises fill
My heart lies with my words
Warm from the kill
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