A poem is a prophet
and a mirror of the self,
an all-seeing oracle
made of heavens both, and hells.
It lies with killing kindness
to ragged, ravaged hearts
and cracks the whip of truth
in sacred, scarred savages
of jagged, jaded art.
A college-ruled confessional
of charities and sins
enumerated and collated
of beginnings both, and ends.
Dichromatic and dichotomous,
emblematic and anonymous
at once servant both, and king.
It is self-serving solitude
secret, sensil, and seminude,
it is the nothing
― of everything.
