Poets Must, by Tammy Mezera

In the trenches I bet my limbs 
one by one to feel no more 
as those who try by folly's whim 
to touch my skin as Webster's pore 

How many words are cast aside 
without pierce by daily chore 
to travel meaning through the vein 
and speak these movements in rapport 

What science measures only weighs 
pounds of study in search for fact 
until the suffrage bears the fate 
to feel these ghostly limbs intact 

What I need is found forsaken 
paths of ink denounces truth 
how the road is overtaken 
by the commoners sleeping muse 

Is there gain to self disclosure 
finding norms that pinch the skin 
stake the claim of understanding 
whats it's like to live therein 

Humanity creates the cause 
that wondrous dance onto the white 
a story told in blackened bold 
emerging from the pen of night 

The significance of lowly 
hears the utterance of the land 
speaking soft to purging hours 
that have filled our working hands 

Will poets serve omissions 
or have limbs now found the fate 
to be no more than scholar's print 
or a mass for propagate 

Will we stay the course of tearing 
threads that bind the world for shape 
and give the course of living 
back to all in poet's wake