A Poet’s Event Horizon

Why can not a poet be a poet?

Living audaciously in the emotive swath

Strewn across the landscape of the frenetic and the stoic intrapersonal realm

Dancing upon the banter beneath the banter

Like lily pads for his amphibian limbs

Defying the density of a tilted sensorial spectrum to be man

Allowed to feel and share

A universe dwarfed in light refracting beneath a bushel basket

Clawing for permission to exist

As the ricochets blow the core away with pellets of feelings turning inward

With no one accepting this choruses of an exploding sun

The black hole begins

As is a poet’s nature the event horizon gradually expands

With every word unrequited like legions of proposals

To sing but lines in flittering sand the oceans of atoms

Condense into an undetectable color

Painted in a mouth vocalizing but an echo

Where ever novel emission returns drawn into the force that created it

So that however much one tries to participate in love

The magnitude crumples into the tenacity of trying to escape the gravity

Of every impassioned failure in the heap

Nothing can be forgotten as time is dilated so that every second inside

A poet’s heart stretches into eons mapped in the flippant blip of those outside

That ever expanding line so that the only solution is not to feel

Not to write, not to want, to reduce in a meditative capsule

So that every notion to be a poet calling out the naked emperors

Will be snuffed into a compartment to wryly smile waving in the crowd