Poets have labored long,
thru starless and starry nights,
to dispel the torment of uncertainty
leaping from neuron’s arguments
breaching near madness,
overcoming sense and sensibilities.
The pen is the conqueror.
Words flow onto blank page in black,
filling the synapses, and binding thought
to triumph the struggle of the day.
The sound of harps or growling of wolves
(one or the other) inhabit the minutes or hours.
Is the sound of harps better to save for posterity?
For quite respectable it is to reveal positivity.
Revealing rabid canines?
Well, that’s quite another matter.
The reader might find violence too appalling.
But is it the reader the poet writes for?
Perhaps the paper will be crumpled and tossed.
The stars don’t care whether a poem is read or not.
© Phyllis Weeks Rogers 12/5/2018