Tapestry

In writing poems,
It is laughable how
People mistake travesty for tapestry,
Vanity for soul,
The momentary thrill
Of self-worth
For laughter.

They weave silk into their ravaged dreams
As if butterfly wings
Would make up for their inexperienced metaphors
And misplaced prepositions
That stumble and riot
In damaging stupors.

Sometimes, they fashion poems like they would
Flowers on tables-
Sentiments that
Are fiercely fragrant
But are afraid to strike.

I would like to ask these writers
If their brocaded language can feed
The belligerent wailing of my hunger.

If their verses can free my faith
from these tangled webs of desolation.

If their words can insulate my beliefs.

Or are their poems
Mere tapestries-
An abundance of flowers
Whose lives are as fleeting and as
Dismissible as dying stars.