who claim poor Yorick being forgotten
and dusted verse of dead Shakespeare!
The rusted sword that cuts your tongue!
The dirt of blabber filling shallow
The depth of your profound thought!
You scream I am Witch of darkened ages!
And make the fire with the pages
That praises me! You bare sages!
Me! Who drank old gin with drunken Poe?
Who filled the skull with blood of wine
for Byron playing in his castle?
Invited to soirees and rested on clover
Bed with Stevenson observing ‘’… child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play…’’ ?
I am condemned to burn in flames
Sustained by you with flapping pages
of poems read as shortened prose!
The masterpieces of new ages
Stored in the dusted schools of yours!
The instruments of inquisition to kill me more~!
I am The Rhyme!
I will survive the burning blaze
Of foolest pages yet receding!
The light of old will lit they way
To newest kingdom
Of my reign!
And not sustained thy flames will wane!
What I say is immensely important than who I am. Let the search be for the meaning and substance in my words rather than the intricacies of my existence.