They Built the Poet His Table Downtown


I search the ruins of my
Subjective mementos
Hoping to find why the poet
in me has been exiled

the rapid stream of life events
has finally caught up
with my prayers that were
names of the dead, history

will not repeat herself in my eyes
poetry is the sister of my memory
body guards of the wilderness
that I endured as a lost youth

and my writing is getting worse
in the greedy arms of living
I have lost lyricism, my address
of universal ideals that once

felt so bright, now I only carry
the breath of others a bit further
in imitation of what is gone
I cannot try anymore to

outyell time, she works no more
addressing the unborn, it is time to live
the future has her own fate
at night I as a poet read

how every author betrays themselves
paradise will be finished
not by words, but by loving deeds
can a word on page be loving?

oily in quiet warmth for family
that is how a poet died
light-hearted as hope to another generation
summoning still the unborn, the born.
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