a much better poet calls my name out and loud
the hall is empty, dark walls and the name of Gods being chanted backwards
ladies claiming to be Eastwood's relatives from the other side of the world
grab my arm and require answers
as a much better poet calls my name
out
and
loud
a much better poet moves his arms and hands rapidly in the air
as he stands in front of a group of humans attempting to find a meaning, or something
rude words are shouted in my ears, everything hurts
more fingers are pointed, a mass intervention with surreal intentions crawls around the room
my car is parked outside, keys waiting in the ignition
as a small dog barks underneath the two p.m sun
as a much better
poet
calls my
name
out
and loud
there is not a better poet, the voice of God echoes as it reaches wooden walls
as the crowd, petrified, behold
a knife is thrown from behind me,
and it travels with invisible precision
before I blink, there it is
the heart finds the metal
the man standing before us with his words and rhymes and years of writing falls quietly on the brown carpet
that man is dead
and so I walk up and stand before those lost souls
and once again
the world is ours
I shout
I am your poet
