The Last Word

Lines of poetry,
forced or unbidden,
words of a muse
and carelessly written,
of lyrics
and nightlife
and storms gone unridden.
It’s time to put them to bed.
The images flow in her head
with the sea,
the stars
and the dead.
They shout for her daily
yet go unheard,
invisible prophets
of a stone-ancient word
in a mechanical place
which becomes more absurd
with ingenuity,
tender
and chance.
It’s time to take up the lance
and pierce the heart of romance.
For who–in a world
of communication,
of lattes,
and brunch dates,
instant gratification–
who is guaranteed
to grasp that sensation?
Is that what the fates have in store?
How can she possibly bid him for more?
For kindness,
kisses
and gore?
Open up freely and let the pen lead.
If she listens to prophets she’s bound to succeed
in life,
and in love.
She’ll make herself bleed
with trying to make herself heard.
Who cares if they call her a nerd?
She’ll manage to have the last word.