.....I Sing The Writer Poem by elysabeth faslund

I must write all words I can.
In this scopic space, time, event...
They tell me syllabically, that Neitsche
Contortions wing seams to arms,
Raptor talons afoot for swooping,
Shredding those who bare words
In his Frankensteinian forest.

With measured, metered sugar, I
Can sprinkle Zarathustra to invisibility...
Right after ryhming, alliterating his
Throat muscles-
Much like chicken neck wringing
Before de-feathering for soup.

Can we afford laughter's tax on tears...
Or pay full price to hear the lone owl
At night...alone.

Should I...can I afford not to write?
For Zarathustra melodied delighting echoes...
There were no words.

Writers coelesced song tones to words,
Eternally damning themselves...
Thus, the Roses of Hell...
Petalled with 'now',
Rooted with 'creation',
Stemmed with 'neverending',

Surrounded in flame.