Poets are liars.
We see the world
Frozen.
Not quite outside of time,
like a god.
but certainly an
image
like an idol.
Immortal, like the
inanimate.
Beautiful
like an outside
reality farce
packaged
into immobility.

Poets are liars.
Like filmmakers
and painters.

Poets are oppressors.
We build our empires
on the dry bones
of vulnerability.
We make our chambers
inside lucrid hearts.
We make up words
we invent lucidity
and the grid.
We are Lords of Death,
of symbols,
of plebeian day dreams,
of boats through the
Styx.

Poets are liars.
We believe in the beautiful
and make her our whore.
Poets are liars,
we paint shit with
gold
and call it
alchemy.

Poets are liars.
We build useless
structures of
sound
to imprison
the ever moving
the daily decaying.

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