Sons of Pericles (from the Farfuckfignugen Collection)
by Maverick.214
What's left when the mission is completed?
What's ahead when everything else is behind?
What's to remember when everything seems to be forgotten?
Where are the sons of Pericles to give us greater orations?
If in finite moments I could discover the truth of self,
I would not be asking such provocative questions.
Rather, I'd be debating a simple koan,
staring at the present as it glares back;
each wondering who is who.
I have broken so many rules;
some belong to me, others made by society.
I have bent so many protocols and defied poets,
who we all know cling too tightly to carefully structured
rhymes, alliteration, lines and stanzas.
This is my poem,
These are my questions.
Poetry has no rules;
no more than the word fuck has power.
Poets give power to words like masturbation gives joy only to the masturbator.
And for those who like to read or watch,
it can be, thus, said that only a dedicated audience can enjoy such performances.
Within the words,
I find personal meaning.
I am the audience,
watching and waiting for another performance;
not giving a fuck about the rules of poetry.
When I find the eternal poem which answers my four simple questions,
it will be the day I write an academic poem
of epic proportion.
Who then will be my real audience
after I leave the moment?
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