UNAFRAID OF WOLVES.

Way down a solitary road,

past the rolling hills of my mind—

is an essence that does not

share power nor give time

to lies, nonsense, or cruelty of any kind.

We call this essence, “heart,”

and it’s the center of my art.

An old poet lives there,

divine as Homer, unafraid of wolves,

born in the Axial Age,

always itching to start

to speak truth to power with clear eyes,

to rage against the cage with no tears, my

countenance is a thousand morphing faces

of every freedom fighter,

in all times and places,

who realized that not only were systems broke,

but the people claiming to help were a joke,

and everyone around was stuck under a yoke

of flesh and blood too heavy to bear.

Are you starting to stare?

Good, I’m starting to speak

with all those people every time, everywhere

who will not let you ruin our world on the sneak

on account of worshiping your God:

G.O.D.— gold, oil, and dollar— I’ll trod

and I’ll holler, as far and as long as it takes

to expose what you could never say with prose:

We’d need seven earths

to support these snakes

of capitalism, materialism, and consumerism

and until you can turn the economic prism

so it shines without ruining rivers and lakes,

chop-topping and mohawking mountains

and leaving us unable to breathe

I question your sanity and the efficacy

of your system. And so listen.

The old poet has been

nipping at your heels, never a liar,

for thousands of years,

naming what every virtuous person fears,

and I guess I’ll keep speaking

until the world ends in fire.

Hey Text and Rocker!

If this poem added value to your day,

check out our new poetry collection

WARRIOR: A TEXT AND ROCK POETRY COLLECTION ON ART. HEART. AND THE WARRIOR ETHOS.

Show up like fate Text and Rocker!

—Swift-Footed Markilles