The Poet
Sergio Pinheiro Lopes

I’m the Poet,
Like many…
Like none…
Blessed with the gift
Of languages,
None with sense…
Words, you know,
Having no boss,
No one to tell them where to go,
Or what to do,
Or what to mean,
The whores of times ancestral.
They, them
And I,
The main word,
Vomiting speechless
“Is” in profusion
In lieu of meaning
I Just cry
And Poet for that,
In my tears, the Poet;
In meaninglessness,
The Poet.

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