You can tell the poem has something to do with writing and the varying reasons why people write or create any kind of art. Most of my poems are more about emotions than telling a story. I do not know about you, but I prefer not to know the intended meaning of a poem or song. I had rather experience them. Anyway, I hope this one affects you in some way. Edit: I now realize I listen to these words with drums in my head that stop suddenly at a period.
What is this business about the written word?
It’s nowhere no how, yes quite absurd, and it takes none now,
no tactical know-how, leave old fashions for the fine and fair.
Snapped back with the pretty words, ain’t they liars
stirred from the herds, we have a mission, our decision
to free the birds from their petty songs.
No freedoms no spaces, no empty page, we brook no time for lazy days
spaces for remembering, will betray our steady rendering
back to our plows, with our wounded hearts.
Cries will not reset our gaze, battlelines forgotten, no words, no rage
no nobody never, gentle lights the dying embers
all the pages are blotted, and the entrance shorn.
Line step quickly lest we forget, left right…right left,
halls of secrets, birds of weeping, Misses teaching,
but only fleeting now we pick up the pace.
Nobody, no time, will be falling, for a graceful line that comes calling
no Lords nor Mary, no Words worth to carry
no mission, no state, no mind, at all.
Fatiguing Linemen can be heard, only must be a dying dirge
yet echoes tender uncoil beating splendor
rising from our bodies so tossed and toiled.
Our meager weapons to no avail, if not divine, it’s heaven’s hell
no breaking the vow now, no art, no know-how
repairs our mind that is broken in one.
Our line’s degraded, henceforth persuaded, we anticipate a fall...
Seasons are changing, our souls are bathing
breaking might save us, after all.
Words are alive now, no factory know-how, can cease the mud to thaw
throw down our wages, realign in stages
the Words aren’t selling, now we start the railing
against the tyrants who made us crawl.
'yet echoes tender uncoil beating splendor/rising from our bodies so tossed and toiled' - oh, that's powerful!