by design

because the poem
summoned me—  
dictated my being  
through (syn)tactical meaning;  
what I mean is—  
I am here, stationed    
for poetry  
I am not a socialite  
or the next internet notch  
on a headboard, belt  
tattooed chest—  
I am not a counselor  
advice columnist  
politician, nor expert  
in anything—  
not even the poem  
because it's in control—  
not me, and can make you believe  
you're the only poet worthy;  
it can desert you, royally  
halfway through composition—  
locking your imagination  
inside its trunk of inspiration—  
fickle, self-serving  
choosing what it chooses  
despite duty or loyalty  
but when it turns homeward  
—that prodigal poem  
within the heart of our muse—  
abandonment is forgotten too soon  
by germinated syllables  
sprouting up its throat—  
tumbling over the tongue  
from its magic mouth  
into a poem  
true poets can do nothing  
but wait helplessly, watching the horizon—  
hopeful romantics by birthright    
lost vigilantes by design  
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