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November 21, 2004


You say that poetry is just
A bunch of people shouting, or
The work of some attention whore,
A feedback loop of limelight lust.
But poets do not poems make:
The words are what we're meant to hear,
The meter, rhyme, the rhythm we're
Rewarded with if we partake
In listening, allowing each
Soft syllable, divine diphthong
Caress us like a Siren song.
They climb aloft and out of reach
Once they escape the sordid breath
Of poets, rappers, all the fools
Who utter them: these mass-less jewels
Live far beyond their speaker's death.


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