the point in poetry

there’ll be adamant balladry
piercing old formations of
what it was to be gallant
that’s no longer guarding
what was once was avant
when the revolutions coagulate
when the clouds of thought
precipitate toward the discrete
they harden as within concrete
the cycle of recycled revenge
lather rinse and then repeat
only seen when sitting at the
centre of the spinning wheel
when able to stop chasing the
auto-refresh feature of trends
opening from inside instead
how you actually do feel
as a means of being human
not as some strategic end
ballads that are adamantine
to be read and to be heard
not to be part of a scene

then some far-off day
it’ll feel stale too
it was what it was once
and that’s actually okay
it’s actually
the whole goddamn point