Iron is for bridges
Superstructures for futures
Steam and great engines
Unbending and ancient
One of the first atoms spasmed
From the billions-ancient chasm
Of our birth in cataclysm
For turning? No it isn’t.
But unsung
Iron makes bombs
Poets they are plastic
aesthetes, airy elastic
never nailed down
cloud-head-clowns
Filled with conceits
Back-room front-runners who believe
That assonance cures dissonance
That syllables call dissidents
But pages don’t
Make presidents
YET
Iron Poets meld dreams
With rock and love with steel
So we are hard as diamond
Yet still feel. So that microchips
Gain pulse and fantasy finds feet
We will bleed and shield
We are veins annealed
We are driven nails and complete
In ourselves we trust
Until the world rusts
The world is insane and I'm in writing therapy!
Yes, my brother.
I want to scream this from a hilltop.
May I make this our credo?
Poets credo.
Creeds limit freedom, but if you make it a song, I’ll sing along!
You have a ‘rust’ thing happening don’t you Mr. P – excellent 🙂
I posted a ‘small’ one on IP but didn’t link! 😦
“until the world rusts” – that’s where I want to be with my camera. 🙂 Great poem.