the Last Poet


Waxing poetic on dead streets
and wind bleached bones
he hails the resurgence
of man’s wild nature
while wading through carcasses
of dead cell phones


past a hyena
resting in the shade
of half a sky-scraper.

The poet whistles
wanting the beast
for companionship
but he only raises his snout
and laughs in echoing yips
his mirth fading like ships
in a mist of elsewhere

so the crier
straightens his gun belt
the leather creaking
like a dying tree limb
and from his holster
he draws his pencil
and prints his muse
onto hallucination

his minds imagination
as he calls into emptiness

“Is there anybody out there?
Alas, any other soul?”

But the only answer
is the laughter
of the beast
colliding with
the pleas
of the poet
and falling silent
like a tree in the forest


the Last Poet — 4 Comments

  1. Wonderful visuals in this piece my friend. I could see and hear the devastation, the peace and tranquility of a one man left stand, the Poet. Thankfully for him he has the company of the yipping Hyena. I really liked this work Wayne, your pencil is as sharp as your wandering mind.

  2. Vincent, I could easily envision me or you wearing that old leather holster. And if poets were gunslingers…you would be one of those quick draw cowboys.

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