Academia is dead
and the street poets rule
with wiles of savage grace
dancing on thunderstorm graves
in the long hour of the wolf
as the new sun's harsh reality
chars the skin and we grab our pens,
writing frantically for no one and everyone
amidst decadent years and short eyes,
trying to re-ignite the magic,
to explode life into fragment puzzles,
forcing the pieces together,
trying to recreate ourselves
in our own image,
trying desperately
to understand.
