One’s Poem | Steven Fortune
Intellectual asylum would appear
to be the remedy for optimal
loquacity miscarried
When the appeal of one’s personality
is measured by the dexterity
of one’s decibels
there ulcerates a retrograde aspiration
to be a rock, to be an island
fortified by the poetry of the ostracized
Owners of the souls so branded
by body language
that an honorable mention
of cultured eccentricity
would be a conspiracy to euphemise
an incongruous presence
To be themselves
is to pry a fissure of contentment
into plains of compromised comportment
and no capacity of sheepish smiles
earns admission to the shelter of frivolity
The con in conversation
disrobes syllabic status like a Trojan Horse
unraveling a spoof of euphony
to decimate at its source
the confidence attained in one’s small talk
on the basis of its evidence in one’s own ear
The cajoling army of loquacity ignites
a brash battalion of belly laughs
like torches for the anarchistic culling
of the unassertive into their cathartic Bastilles
of libraries and coffee houses