Don’t speak, poet, your words are fallacy,
Dramatized, you offend my world’s-eye,
Mime your displays without my sight, cell me,
Within bleeds of wording. Me extends I.

Lie mute, poet, sounds of you matter less
Than infernal hell’s blaséness. Poet,
Lie still. Squirming to be self confesses
To loosing soul’s confusion. If I’m it.

Don’t cry, poet, you’ve lain, deposed. Some know
There is no repose in happiness, no
Wilder life than the one you give, supposed,
Denied by the chasm of quid pro quo.

Don’t look to me, poet, your pain is owed,
Your voice comes late to agendas unknown.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 3/14/08