Among Broken Poems
“broken poets make broken poems” —Anonymous
Each broken poem pays the price.
Its sorrow wastes its wisdom on regret.
The concrete hearts of monsters
Play in the wind, downstream
Fools copy reams of terror.
We shared no love, only tomfoolery —
You blame fairies, but it was only their dust.
Your skylarking played out like a lead balloon
Over the ocean rising to meet noon.
We played in the parlor of words
Where broken poems go to sulk and curse.
Black veils should hide you for your perfidy.
But I shall not judge but shall go on
Fighting only the good fight against
Poetasters and other putrid poseurs.
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