We’re All Sick Poets in the End

Tree of spacetime
by k. shawn edgar

We’re All Sick Poets in the End


We, of the bevelled moan

morning to mourning

our creature cries

round all angles

into slopes


Is this our due?

Our doing?


From the first letter

we come out of each other

as contractions of whole words

sounds butting heads with mumbles

into personalized slang glee passing

through lucid communal tomes

adding, subtracting, or multiplying

our digits and tongues—lips full blown


To the sky, our dream realm, words

were our first deep-space travelers

We released each syllable as a canary

through caves flashing with lights

before a human foot fell forward

A brave caution in the beginning

a tree-like adventurousness too

growing up from long dead bones

but like a skeleton, this decays

into a cautionary tale meant to

inhibit instead of inspire dreams


As the cutting edge becomes blunted

stubborn ripples build to white noise

a backwash of surely echos miming truth


In the end these hardened weary words

are more important than the play of ideas

The communal tomes collapse into stylized

babble as we eulogize ourselves off cliffs



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