tortured poets
faced their desks motionlessly
swallowing the aftermaths of destruction
maybe a creation
staring at their bathroom floors
oscillating between
the invention of a ballad
or something bigger
than what fit into their ribcages
they wailed, soared, one wept
about finding the dusk inside the lover’s iris
some others would make it a weapon
to kill a bird and birth a poem
some would make a room
to lit candles and rush to the next stanza
tortured poets knelt after
the ghosts of anyone who once lived
of anything, any shapes, of colors
and after the remnants of a boarded up church
licking sins after sins to make of
the gruesome backstory of their deaths
sometimes they dressed themselves
in a cloak
the grim reaper
sometimes as a god
other times at the pond reminiscing,
feeling their tongues unable to rhyme
blue with the lakes
or pondering whose voice that supposed to
speak it
pondering over rejected lines
while went out walking,
filled their jars and baskets to the brim,
unable to find their faces in their self potrait, muttering
always the poet never the poem
