I must have written
thousands of poems
each one exquisite
and brimful of
meaning
telling the stories
of human existence
the why how and
wherefore
explaining it all
as each one was finished
honed to perfection
brilliantly shining
primed with
excitement
each anxious word sat
quietly waiting
expecting its
entrance
balanced and poised
its fellow words
shimmering
sitting beside
them
all costumed,
fragrant,
sure in their
meaning...
alone, they were nothing
yet, tied all together
suddenly, potions of
magic became!
waiting to come out
enlighten the
audience
the reader, in ignorance
cherishing bliss
my words were not frightened
my poems, an army,
well-trained,
determined,
their mission: world
peace
then!
mass devastation
it sharped out
like lightning
enveloped in engines
of oily morass
creeping, snaked,
rat-like
devoured every
syllable
not, one-at-a-time,
but "Select
all" "Delete"
thus came The
Destroyer
my nemesis
doubt-plague
no friend of the
future
it took every word
engulfed and consumed them
without even chewing
assumed they were
fruitless and
meaningless tripe
if, somehow, this
poem
escaped The Destroyer
and made it to your
ears
don't think it's okay
for countless great treasures
more beauteous than
sunlight
inspiring and wise
lo!
trod out before
this one escaped noticed
because it was
weaker
no glimmer of
genius
no power to behold
do not be content
with this witless
pretender
those other dead poems
were worth
so
much
more
