Inspiration spirals into form and creation.
Creation gives birth to energy.
Energy becomes spirit.
Dancing on the tongues of bluesmen in the Delta,
Or across the lips of Hopi shaman on the Mesas,
Ever-changing with each new generation.
Change and growth keeps life moving.
The spirit is alive.
The unbound spirit is immortal.
But if the spirit is captured
And forced into the flesh of the page
A prison of compressed pulp
The growth ends, change ceases
What was once a spirit becomes an Earthly thing,
Bound by mortal limitations.
Livestock locked in pleather binding
Used to breed new inspiration and future livestock from the minds of a reader
But over time, being slowly drained of relevance and energy.
If the mortal’s secrets are revealed,
If the author betrays the symbols,
Then the trapped livestock becomes cold and rigid.
A dead thing--slaughtered and skinned.
Worn proudly by its former master,
Its head mounted on the mantel next to the heads of other cheated and poached game.
Nothing more than a material trophy,
A symbol of the author’s intelligence, philosophy and articulation.
No more growing, no more breeding.
The penned words, which seemed to promise immortality,
Now, as though carved in marble stone,
Serve as only a permanent reminder of what once lived.
There is no meter or rhyme in this hypocritical verse.
This particular spirit was stillborn into self-explanatory body.The only thought it can breed is self-serving; it’s only inspiration a rejection
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