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bardic provocation in four turns
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ars poesia
a provocation in four turns
poet, not prophet,
nor a comforter—
just the grit lodged
between your teeth
when you try to speak.
poem's knock
at the wrong door,
a silence that refuses
to stay silent,
a shard of mirror
you cannot pocket.
poetry, not chorus,
nor hymn—
but a parliament of fractures,
each line a fuse
that burns sideways,
each stanza a dare
to be misread.
poetics' rule is simple:
trip the tongue,
tilt the frame,
let thought limp
until it learns
another gait.
.
