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There is no time for poetry;
for words that tumble out of mouth and tongue,
for words that form waves that spill from lung.

There is no time for poetry;
for words that make men tumble and weep,
for words that bring the dead from sleep,
for words that tear rocks from the keep.

There is no time for poetry;
for our words lie slick upon our tongues,
lie still before they’re born,
lie broken and torn.

There is no time for poetry;
words ever ready to set men upon the shining seas,
words that cause men to charge from quiet into chaos.
There is not time for poetry.

© rl busséll 2018

This entry was posted in poetry.

2 comments on “There is no time

  1. Then we must make time for poetry. If we don’t, who will?

    Like

    1. rlbussell says:

      Hear! Hear!

      Liked by 1 person

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