When the axis of your planet shifts,
When a catastrophe levels your life;
Will the cerebral soft porn of poetry
And the intellectual self-gratification
That it provides cease to be relevant?
When you have to roll up your sleeves,
When you have to fight to survive,
When chapbooks are burned to keep warm,
When power is measured by guns and ammo,
When the written word is disparaged
As weak, or worse yet, as "evil,"
Will love be jettisoned as well?
Will life become nasty, brutish and short
As you battle to simply endure it?
Or will poetry remain your link to humanity?
The oral tradition that binds a tribe together,
The totem of your aspirations,
The glimmering light of revelation
That will lead you again toward
The better angel of your being.
When the axis of your planet shifts,
Will poetry become a superfluous luxury
Or the path to your salvation?
