Not a religion, poem. Key?

This is consciously a poem and so must try
to outstare itself. It knows itself by its
line breaks. And clever self-referencing.
Its lack of narrative is clear—

we're waiting.

And again.

"Here" lies, an opportunity. Your eyes can speak
of symbols, signs of things that haven't come
in a visual age: an end to war, despite a War
to end them all. And suffering, despite a fat man's
sculpted illusion. You have your peace.
I prefer my conflicted version.

But this is consciously a poem, not
a religion. It's a chance to speak
without dogmatism, without a voice

if you choose. And to read without one, too.
Chance forewords drop from the air
or out of your mind's eye, whetted and appetised
...
No pictures anywhere! So is reality nowhere?
Yes, we can be happy at last. Reality freed.

Costing nothing, giving nothing. All
consuming, a self-conscious // 
mean
"not mean". Or try this ~

Art? Always "not art". Its one
great purpose. Don't blame the // or the ~
or even the ___ for their re-theenking.
When you're in a dark cell, ancient
ring pulls from Coke cans feel like keys.

 

 

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