and behold
the icy grasp
of death
burrowing
further down
into the soul
of art
of word
of expression

hear the death rattle
of purity
in every
faded verse
as insincerity
lifts
it’s bloody muzzle
from the corpse
of poetic nuance

yet on
the stillborn hands
of shaky wordsmiths
lay claim
to title of bard
with sewn lips
incapable
of preaching
the serendipitous sermon

do we create
from spasm
or shuffle the deck
of needled praise
in hope
the masses
seek salvation
in every
inkstained stanza

nay
we dance
on her lacerated spine
circling the wagons
to exalt one another
by campfire
choosing not to heed
the vacuous silence
of innocuous charlatans