Poem: Poets at work.

 

We must protect the poets. We must save the artists and the writers and the buskers.

Our streets and our cities bustle and pumps. Bodies drag frowns and swift moving legs through corridors of concrete. Quick they move. Fast/ Go-go-go/ No stop. No time to admire the view.

 Music smooths the edges and softens the blows and gentles the cracking of the capitalist whip.

Like a finger in the sands of my mind, a simple thought is written. A wonderful soul-changing idea. A fragile story. A delicate flutter in the heart. A floating petle hints at something joyous.
The breeze of distraction wipes out its form. Like workman’s boots over pearl white pebbles of a gently combed zen garden. – SNAP OUT OF IT. BACK TO WORK!

And it’s gone. The budding poet’s flame is extinguished. 

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