Warriors of the Tombs
When complacency has settled in
and taken root in the soul,
sending the impassioned to their tombs,
that illspirited spirit that
mixed the darkness
into the heat of the vibrant light
and invented a new poetry
that took place of the passionate
called penumbra, a black and white,
a numbing of the senses,
a standing still in the moving currents
alone from a kiss that kindles a fire,
a cloud that holds up the sky,
a chariot that runs along the firmament,
a poetic spirit that
spirals around the stars,
that turns the earth inside out,
that turns data into the imaginal,
iron into feathers,
misery into euphoria, and earth into space.
Alas, the rebellion of the committed,
the healing of the wounded spirit,
as warriors arise to the
horn of the common man,
the pleas of the spiritless,
the defeated ones who once were poets,
who circled the earth
with their colossal wings,
who glamorized the ugly
and breathed life into the lifeless,
the ones with their imagings
inside their prisons,
granted a reprieve to shed their shackles
and rise with the winds
of the southern skies,
a new spirit that warmed the darkness
and brought the poets out of their tombs.
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