table scraps of the hms beagle

perhaps poetry
is a vestigial trait
one worn to the nub
a random mutation
eroding in a world
where everyone
seems to feel everything
causing apathy
to drape itself
over the constant grit

the quiet desperation
of the solitary poet
an appendix ignored
a forgotten stump
only remembered in
times of great crisis

how i long for a tail
instead of wings that will
never lift me to the sky
dessicated rejoinders
from deevolutional devotions
slice my throat into
gills so i might swim
untethered to the air
that does not want me
web my toes and fingers
so i may become amphibious
capable of withstanding
the immense pressure inside

we need to breed out
the vestigial traits of
poets and fools too full
of emotion they spill
in torrents of ink
ignored by the evolved minds
darwinian disasters consumed
by wayward naturalists
pinned in glass cases
on display in museums
to be passed over by children
racing to see dinosaurs
these pathetic reminders
of broken prose
pressed between sheets of vellum
dried flowers gone to dust

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