The poet will soon get tired
of the compulsion that drives
his veins to the silent sun.
And the poem he will write
has already withered in the air.
But it’s all just music. A hooplah
enjoyed by old ladies and children
in a messy dancehall. There is no art
clinging to his bones. They just carry
him to an orange sky, hoping to impress
the air with something deeper
than meaning. But only a decent song
breeds from his lip.
I hope he gets tired
of the sun and the entirety of waves
brushing against the sky.
They offer only a soundless voice.