My poem is not silent
It's a knife, it's even
Intense, it anticipates and, now they'll say...
It's a style
With no hiding place
Decrees existence, here, there.
It's a flower, it's even
It knows no order
No verdict of ignorance
My poem is intransigent
It's a poet alert to farce.
It possesses disobedience, it's even
It doesn't feign, it doesn't flee.
It's birds migrating
It's for those alive today, it's bent on justice.