Not given this gift of wordcraft
to speak of love, inner peace, gratitude…
as a humble servant of truth, I wear this poet’s coarse cloak
and those who wield wealth and weapons
know the threat of it,
that poetry cannot manifest in deceit.
Their lies hold no contest to a poem.
They can fire journalists,
buy out newspapers,
bankrupt publishers,
burn manuscripts,
silence radio stations,
cancel TV programming,
and clog the internet with bullshit.

But they can never erase a poem.

No amount of damage control
will scrub the poet’s words,
once heard.
Sticky stuff of cadence and rhyme,
repeated by humankind since vowels and consonants
first combined as stories passed from
fires to phones, stubbornly persist.

Before chiseled stone,
printing press,
truth prevailed
in the words of a poem.

And there you have it,
why I write poetry.

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