Beginnings

In their enclosed quarantine zone Adam and Eve saw no need for poetry an art form that could not hope to rival any of the sounds within those

cold, transparent test tubed walls poetry exists when things fall short when there is a gap between the want and the real Perfection kills poets in the wom

poetry only became possible after the expulsion inch by inch and step by step the world degraded still, their eyes could rotate back and forth and their necks could turn, their bodies spin

and still see nothing but beauty in this new world poetry then was just a slight commentary on the varying forms of beauty, and how while joyous, a tad wanting in comparison

then came not the fall, but the murder and their child at that, at the hands of their other child, they had spawned monsters and Eve inwardly cursed their gods

and cast them out of her heart

Adam’s gaze then narrowed and the world descended further from the heavens above, hard times for in his memory, if you had asked

how far the stars

why he would laugh and reply why a strong jump upwards the bats and the birds of the night must take care navigating around them

but no longer

beauty was every where, abundant but eating at the edges, rot and spoilage age and time, leeching both beauty and strength the sorrow of a dead child in his heart

inwardly he questioned his gods

and thus the evolution of poetry began and poets blinked upon seeing new facts and sought to paper over the faults with their flowered prose, and for a time

they were equal to the task

the modern age finds them hard atoil delusional thought processes, coupled with mental frameworks to edit and delete all those unpleasant sights and sounds

the extinctions abounding around them

now they no longer even enter the gardens or valleys encountered, too afraid of finding the dread hand of mankind, corpse flies and maggots crawling through the dead

hard to wax poetical

today we wear tattered cloaks made out of shameful history frantic hands attached to minds that have retreated into banality

seeking a refuge there

write then of rainbows, sweet tastes waterfalls, certainly, but select carefully not the ones where body parts and garbage pour over the lip, endlessly into the once

graceful fall