Tuesday, September 10, 2013

The Poets Progress

pompous poet searches for the perfect words, they don't sound smart enough, he's been working on it all morning, it's time to hurry it up, riddles words cliches apparently clever sounding, hoping to impress all those around him, if they understand him he worries he'll be dull, if they don't understand a word they'll think it a thrill.
i know this crowd the sound of an ovation, they delight in any explanation given they consider it skill, all the time he's just playing with words teasing them it's his will, poet laureate nothing else he confides as they gather round and listen, he's hardly understood his own words written but they keep clapping.
days later he drives his car over the cliff he'll be remembered for ever, he smiles as the vehicle flies down and down, he wont feel a thing when it smashes to the ground, he is not worried about the after life or where it will take him, he's immortalized himself and thinks it will be heaven as a new audience awaits him, not that he understands a thing.

No comments:

Post a Comment