To Unhinge:
An ode to the terminal
The words of the poet are much like the shuffling
passengers,
aligned for a purpose,
their goal a journey to a more meaningful place.
A process that is mindless and fluid,
though strictly speaking never considered needed,
often causes the average,
or the
author—
to unhinge.
Those who live by the appropriate,
mimicking the blue clad bane of the supposedly secure,
fling forward their cold black bar
their metal
detector or harsh stare or accusing questions—
Seeking to uphold and protect for the greater good,
but cause those innocent,
those artists—
to unhinge.
The calm quiet silence of solidarity and sanity
is often broken by the crackling of the droll,
the words so blatantly unnecessary, benign, tedious
sometimes spoken, sometimes machine—
or in the head or set in standards—
The effect often the same, though denied by any except the
cynic or the simpleton
is proven to cause the sane
or the
romantic—
to unhinge.
Outside force is the last authority
the Driver of the chaos in the terminal,
or the
imagination or the word count—
known by the name of either inspiration or rocky weather.
She
or he, one can’t be so pompously blind
is the one invariably impervious to prayer or tantrums
And one can be so certain to swear to the God that any given
man lives by,
that this muse of great passion and flight delay
causes Everyone
Every
artist and Every stranger
to unhinge.
