This poetry serves a purpose

This Poetry Serves A Purpose

This poetry serves a purpose
it certainly exults in the Devil's workshop,
flaming facsimiles of common sense
Stroll boldly where fools go slow,
heightened awareness blindly staring,
mulling the unthinkable,
greasy with fingerprints,
Angst takes time
and parleys it to a semblance
of presentable effluent,
when pride takes a back seat
to overweening hesitating selfishness,
yes poetry serves a purpose.

Some things better left un‑read;
heaven's gate Sgt. Mengele sorting,
blast our iniquity, wasn't worth dying for
though it certainly felt like it,
Youth a curse, turns out
`Cancer’s got to live too!'
the beggar said to Talleyrand,
Pretty girls are beautiful teenaged boys
nipped in the bud of machismo,
Haunting possibilities skittish as:

"Suppose you came upon a deer‑fawn
that fell into a cluttered well,
before your friends could shoot the creature,
you shot the lot of them instead!
while waiting in the gallow's shadow,
-the nation's scorn upon your head
You'd be the first in terms of glory,
to the deer‑fawn, your final friend!"

So drown your conclusions in poetry,
pick the angles,
bend rhythm and bother blend,
pretend you understand
(no‑one knows what you know)
or gives a careful damn
Yes poetry serves a purpose
to spend, to end.