Underground

I have arrived at the conclusion
that Poets are the Underground.
The voice in the utter-darkness void
where wisdom may be found.
The new ideas and old refrains
of space unseen and sins of Cain.
They march the words of dire despair
into the light and lay them bare.
They seek the sins behind the bold,
and shout when one their soul has sold.
Corrupt and heinous cannot hide
from those who with the Muse abide.

And yet, when one needs nurturing,
or kindness soft, or fantasy....
then still with pen in willful hand,
the Poet writes in ecstacy!
of unicorns and goblins dark,
of sadness, and unyielding night;
for theirs the task to lift the heart
and lay the pathway to the light.
They hold not to what others think
or rules by which the world is bound.
Their hand and pen compiles
from the annals of the Underground.
     ©  Joyce P. Hale

Photo by J.P.Hale