The Poet Speaks

In the twilight years of poetry
when the word lovers weep
for lack of rhymes,
when street gestures
and catacomb profanity
hide unexpressed
in the dictionaries
of dead civilizations,
when impoverished odes are painted
on enslaved eyeballs,
the poet speaks.

The poet speaks
vomiting stanzas across
the pristine streets of ignorance,
spreading the bacteria of knowledge
through unthinking populations,
and teaching the unaware
how to ask questions.

I poem is posted in Writing in Snow in my writing.com port under the folder Awardicon Item. I am Prosperous Snow.