i know of a god in man’s flesh
feeding on rhetorical feasts
in figures of speech.
the god is a poet.
he is an initiate- an elephant’s head,
unfit for the playful palms
of a juvenile-
a burden on the high shoulders
what do you worship in a shrine
if not deities and their idols-
icons of your desires?
the poet cements
the cracking walls of poetry
for others to lean on.
the poet is a figurative framework
– a building block for builders of lines
and lyrics to furnish bright thoughts
even in dark days;
the hyperbole of hysterical hymns
in the voices of teeming hearts;
a metaphor for taboos
that you must not toy with
when fondling the foreskin of imagery
to a reader’s awe.
if i am a poet,
personify me with the head of a sky
that the hands of a tower cannot touch
then you shall find the irony
that limits the altitude at which eagles fly
even at a sight beyond an ordinary eye.
like a simile, i swim the depth of a seafood
when i dig my muse through the mystery
of the seas to find answers
to queries thrusting off my thoughts.
i am the ying-yang that portrays
the oxymoron in the unity
of blacks and whites, in lights and nights.
alliterate an alpha and
find me at the omega of onomatopoeia
of sounds that sings my soaring soul
into the hands of clapping clouds.
go all the way to and fro the pages
of poetry and follow the fluidity
that flexes the freedom of my verses
in free verse
then you shall see the traces of my fingers
in each line, as you read my writes
across these lines.
a man is a god,
if he walks in the rough path
that skills the feet of poetry
through any weather or terrain.
so, write poetry till you find your soles
above the ground-level of mortals
then be a god afterwards.
O’real © 2017.