My teachers
Never spoke of poets
Whose histories
Withered in secret
Like breeding grounds
Breaking tradition
Obscuring truths
They’d neglect

Until that day
I discovered
Many muses dwell
Amid shadows
Left purposely draped
For no reason
Across this stage
Feigning words

Where feelings hide
Between pictures
Each conjured verse
Claims to show us
Yet tells through lines
Often staggered
Through cadence heard
By default –

An inherent beat
Being played
Across lengthy tales
Failing senses
Besides our gift
Speaking rhythms
Spilling fancy lies
Over verbs

Where among old dreams
We remain
Still scouring books
Finding meaning
Or a purpose held
Tracing legends
Whose mysterious ways
Seem divine

Since magic thrives
Beneath dust
Even time itself
Has forgotten
While idling strength
Soon diminished
When modern eyes
Seeks its cures

But guiding fools
All the same
In desperate need
Lacking vision
Believing art
Their cruel mistress
Still dangling love
Above fate,

Once observed
Yet hardly defined
Like liturgies lost
Wasting worship
On wishes made
Begging fortunes
From inspired fears
Going wrong.

• J. Pigno