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
