Sign this waiver before reading
as this poem might claim your life.
People warned that poetry
can only withstand so much pressure,
can only reach so much depth
within the confines of the skull,
before that whole terrarium
is blown wide, open as an apple half
attracting flies in the sun.
Sign here, initial here, don't worry
that this poem has not been equipped
with an escape hatch
or a tow line, or even a reliable means
of finding its way home,
which should just be up, up, up.
If eyes are the windows to the soul,
this poem is the port hole
to the most hidden graveyard
of the world, where even squids
fear to scribble their ink.
I am the CEO of this poem,
and I assure you, each stanza
was crafted with the precision
of a crayon melted to fit its mold.
Never mind that sound of creaking,
never mind that claustrophobic unease
sinking like lead weight in the throat.
The poem is the last vestige of the human soul
gone unexplored, mining the darkness
for those few filaments of
luminescence still moored
to the floors of possibility unknown,
but to get there,
to get there you must be bold,
bold enough to risk it all.