Is it a time for poetry?
The right time?
The time for the distillation
of emotion and thought, of anger or love, adoration or hatred
reduced to a few
salient
words?

We have endured diatribes,
words spilling like hot lava destroying beauty in their path.
Rhetoric spewed,
Sprayed, vomited into our minds
and hearts,
coating any goodness that used to be.
Masking our humanity.

Is it a time for poetry?
A time when one word might evoke wonder
and the sound of it might join hands?
When language might return to play and turn its back on war?
When belli-gerence might be shed
and in the nakedness
bellus might be seen.

Is it a time for poetry?

What better time would there be?