Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Green voices, youthful in their haste,
flecked with an ounce of knowing
tied the old man in his ways.
By rote they lashed His words with words,
gagged his mouth with whispers of belief,
cursed his eyes that couldn’t see their truth
and cut the tongue that wouldn’t write their taste.

They bound him, crowned him king of fools.
Built wooden crosses for his back
spat doggerel kisses at his craft,
branded him with lines rough hewn
then teased him with a spear of ink
that curled to verse upon his skin.
An old man's tattooed pride against their rules.

Rhyme turned lost reasons into curse,
strict forms filled gaps in his disgrace,
proved his guilt beyond reprieve
their versions bastardising his
missed visions into heresies
he never saw , yet nor did they,
who smiled and hammered spikes into his verse.

The critics built their empires on his dross,
re-wrote his words in verses pure,
wove rags of right from threads of silk
dowsed lines of lead in mines of gold.
While punctuating crowns with thorns
they staked their claim to higher ground
but failed to see the poet or his cross.

Enjoyed.

Reminds me of a certain poetry site where the owner and his cohorts reign like new world order cabal people. Very nicely written.

A good and well written poem.