Many men and women
Writers…Poets
Shackled with that, which they
Can’t Escape
A Conscience…Earthly principles
The burden of suffering humanity
Fetters attached to the heart
Woe to poor Poe
As the flinty, flickering-eyed raven
Raps and Taps him
Towards despair, dipsomania and deliverance
Shelley, whose young eyes found in nature
The beauty, the placidity, missing in man
Orwell, who looked in, and through, a mirror
And saw the future…black, foreboding… imminent
Zinn, who exposed the hypocrisy of Oligarchy
With brilliant insight…and their own time “honored” words
Wordsmiths working in yellowish candlelight
Or the incandescent glare of Edison’s invention
With quill pen or typewriter…on note pads and matchbook covers
Ideas and Inspirations…Trenchant streams of Consciousness
Conceived amidst fears…Tear stained parchment
Sometimes written…in a blood fever
Voicing the quintessence of communal mankind
With trembling lips and steady hands
Literary lions …Valiant voices in urban wilderness
They now and forever…Rest in Peace
Or do they?
For if a conscience is not a soul
Then what is it?
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