The Metronome


This poem is turned off
on white dusty roads
the way dark & dead,
this poem feeds no one.

This poem is switched,
instead of thunder storms
stones rattle in my head
yet the poem rumbles on.

This poem is a broken blade
sawing on the edge of my tongue,
it's words salting my thirst
as they pour back into my soul.

This poem has surface
and no sub soil, no worms,
no wriggling natures.
Only rows of 'keep off' notices
and the sense of rebel readers.


John G.Hall(C)2004