This poem is not for sale. You can read and declaim it,
But you can not buy it.
You can listen to it or ignore it, you can write this poem down
And maybe you can even sing it.
But you can not claim it.
This poem is not even mine.
It was whispered to me by my subversive soul,
In the hope that yours will hear it and rise.
Poetry is not a trade,
It is the numinous language of our souls.
This poem is not for sale. Some might print it,
Sell you those for a profit.
Because printing is a trade,
And you can buy ink on paper.
But you can not buy this poem.
This poem is not for sale.
It is the subversive proof that we have a soul.
One can not make a living from writing poetry, it is a gift.
Like the blood coursing through my veins,
And the breath that animates me.
(C) Didier Beaugrand 05/2020