For what it is worth

Once more unto the breach
of the peace
dear friends and fiends
once more our words live,
blathering, slathering and gathering
to put pen to paper
or lines via laptop
or communion by computer
or tales by tablet.
Each one a tale in itself
with accompanying profile pictures
which are tableaus unto themselves
screaming and jostling for attention
or merely stating the miserably mundane
or building wonders with words;
possibly trying to do one of those things
as the world turns
and time eats away at our essence
hoping to prove and provide
ideas and tales to live forever
though in the grand scheme of things
soon we will be mere wormfood
even if we do get to be referred to
as 'poets' or 'wordsmiths'
though our brains be long atrophied
and our fires long quenched
our energy spent, the words written,
and only those words as markers
of our time on this earth.
Still,
it beats rotting outside
or inside as a sales assistant;
though some will surely not agree
poetry makes us immortal and free.