PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I am not the benevolent Oz, great or otherwise —
no levers behind velvet, no emerald gates to dazzle the credulous —
only the stubborn machinery of my own making,
a few cogs greased with irony,

    a crank that squeaks in the key of

                 don’t take this too seriously,
                         until the hum you mistake for a hymn
                    becomes the wind over a toppled statue in the sand.

Once, its face wore the smirk of a ruler certain he’d outlast the sun.
The words at its base still shout about greatness —
but there’s nothing left to rule but air and grit.

Your fawn‑eyed devotion is touching,
in the way a moth’s devotion to a porch light is touching,
and just as doomed.

Look on my works, ye Mighty — and bring a broom;
                             the dust is winning,
and the curtain you thought was closing
was only the desert swallowing the stage.

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