but not their former meanings
we have mispent words the words of miscreants
we have counterfeits and nt the gold largesse
of words so beautifully careless flung over the stars
pauses in between where we can revive
in the kingdoms of previous poetry
when words were still alive and we read them
honey dripping down the day candle wax down
mysterious green bottles
skylark blue and winging
what have we come to.
codes. hand gestures for
get me out of here
i am a prisoner. they have laid down my soul
and pitched pennies over it and ground in the dust
till I am rust and a rusty gate with no hinge.
poetry with a hand held sign
in the back of a speeding junk heap.
tell me why what was silver is now dross
what was blooming is now withered
why the word that fell from your lips like pearl
has turned to sludge.
mary angela douglas 2 august 2020
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