Poetry Forgets
Poetry is not a prayer. It is pure heart’s discontent & from there the holiest verses spring like blooming dama de noches in the night fields of dried sultry soil.
Poetry resists. (Like chance ever hating fati foedera).
Prometheus, the insurgent of the lore declared war against metaphysics: “I hate the pack of gods!”
That day, poets sang for old gods & new.
Poetry is chance occurring like a rain during the middle of an intense summer warmth, surprising but desired.
Words give birth to poets-- maniacs of the dying day, prophets of the coming age; howlers of unholy poetics welcoming doom.
As always, let poetry rejoice the tiny death of truth, mourn the birth of tragic lies!
Poetry, indeed, is a noble lie, thusly, a killing spree of Truth.
Like how dementia slowly devours the dusts of anonymous graves.
Poetry remembers. At most, poetry forgets.