We write as if to believe
God himself will read
our words out loud
to his angel legions.
Command them to memorize
our sonnets, odes, and prose
with hope that they will sing
our lines for eternity
on cotton kisses clouds,
glancing down upon us
ignoring our existence,
yet making our creations
immortal.
So we move our hands like gypsies,
magicians, clowns. Our sole purpose
to entertain hypnotize a crowd
with desire that by the end
of the night someone
will give their soul
to poetry.