Ah, Poetry...you smirking serpent, biting my ankle, as I lie awake with eyes closed, wondering why I had dreamed of the River Nile and a blood red moon on Sahara’s tepid wasteland. You infuse my questioning mind with doubts and wonder and rhetorical theories on creation’s real meaning, and the end of the known universe.
You caveman, dragging me onstage to show my ignorance to an audience of wannabes who pray that they live forever, but die to the sound of their own forced applause, as I stare open-mouthed at the broken auto-cue and wait for inspiration.
You Brutus, backstabbing me with yet another vain metaphor that no-one understands despite its neon buzz and pole dance posturing in its own seedy tavern of righteousness.

You circle, turning over the wheels of time to travel into thoughts, into musings, far more befitting a rich man or ruler, or a contented fisherman on a floral riverbank, rather than me, merely a thin white candle in the hurricane of life.
You cannon, booming out your feeble message to pound against the imagined ramparts of a stoned society with no moral conscience, growing weaker with each reload but firing away in a futile gesture of annoyance and hope for recognition.
You oyster, locked away in a breathless world that I can see but not survive in; looking in from the wind-swept surface, caught in a dimension of time and tide and rippled emotion.
You comet, streaking past so seldom on a nightly mission of light and some stellar reaction that demands description, yet defies thought and image with its purity and flow.

Ah, Poetry, you bastard.