Sacrificator Of Poetic Form Poem by Ted Sheridan

His words do not stir much in the way of any intellectualistic theories
or understanding of what a poems construction should look like
or read. He writes as he lives his life, he writes with the blood
that he bleeds; with words like knives he cuts away at the meat,
leaving behind the bare bones of his more than potent seed.
He is not a farmer or a gardener, planting for a fall harvest in life,
he is but a poor ditch digger who has buried his pain with his strife;
in the cemented and asphalt covered streets of filth and rot.
Fully matured before he was ten, he’d been born on a mattress inhabited
by cockroaches and lice. He is the equivalent of a modern day Christ,
reciting his parables and sermons for all the sheep that have followed
the prophets of the churches commercially sanctified media doom.
He is you, he is me and through him we find the words to speak. He is
not a poet in the true sense of the definition, he is but a man
who carries his own cross in life and whose blood is on our hands….

2008 ©