The poem is dead before it is born
Disjointed severed limbs
In a foggy marshland of
Barren amniotic fluid.
Waves kiss the sand
In a tedious continuum
The west wind rages
Like a wild Tasmanian devil.
The poem is kidnapped
Before it learns to walk
Swept off its little unsure feet
And hurled against flashy billboards
Glittering along the busy expressways.
The mother laments in her throes
Yet to deliver the unformed babe
In the stark, vacant,
White-washed sanitized labour room.
Streams of blood and tears
Hills and the sky
Look away in remorse
As she holds up a lantern
Looking for the child
Who she has lost and never will find
In swanky busy fiscal Wall Street.