And the Poets Will Be Our Saviors

When the end comes,
and it will,
and the words dry up
with our long-crippled sense of wonder;
when autumn no longer
comes as a relief and
the crocus has forgotten spring;
when empty is a lifestyle and
not an adjective;
when we’ve squandered our
miracles and
abdicated crowns we never
imagined
we possessed;
when we’ve sold the last of
the children
and are grimy with shame
and desperation;
when the only thing that stops us
from crucifying ourselves
entirely
is that we can’t hold the hammer
and the nail
in the one remaining hand;
when our souls finally begin
keening for what was misplaced, mistaken,
and missed,
but never lost,
we will be reborn of tears instead of
ashes

and the poets will be our saviors.

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