A Poem about Poets: Quicklime

The poet and his Holy Spirit

Quicklime
The poet and his Holy Spirit

An easy voice kept holstered at my hip,
I practice every day and never tire.
I have a ready tongue and ready lip,
My lungs breathe out a mix of wind and fire.

You wonder how my weapons are so quick,
And why I am so ready to make war;
I ask you why your tongue has got no prick.
And why your flame won’t flicker anymore.

I fight the iron skies, bureaucracy,
And triplicate procedures to submit.
My vengeance is against the appointee
Who piled all the poets in a pit.

So rise out of the grave by spoken word
And slay them with your seven-edgèd sword.

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