The box

Who are these people in printed journals,
Agents for syllables?
Small letters examined one by one,
Put together in a square box—
It is the silence that appalls me the most!

I have put my eye to the grid of words,
Dark, dark by a poet’s hands,
Thoughts angrily clambering;
Yet, I let them out— stood back, set them free,
Everybody’s voices, smiles changing;

In need of a breastplate tucked under the arms,
Wearing of black veils after a read;
Strips of tinfoil for a smile.
I cannot run, I am rooted too deep,
If I stand still long enough, I will be untouched by animosity.

I lay my hand on a journal, it may ignore me immediately;
The pack, haunched, grinning over the bone of victory.
Yet, a stepping stone for a manuscript, for a book,
Poems into a new niche, from a black intractable mind.
I am no source for a rejection— the box is only temporary.

Copyright © 09/14/18 lance sheridan®