The poet’s hat was adept in cerebral
matters; It kept his brain warm.
It formed a neat halo around his bone
carved dome & hid his mind from the
scrutiny of strangers—shaded his
brow from the sun’s hot daggers.
Over shifts in time he would come to learn,
that nothing could ever prepare one for the
heated rush, or the cruel disappointment
of one’s own internal monologue.
He had decided that it’s only what is
unsaid that holds any degree of truth.
He immediately set to work again; wired
his findings through with a detached
lethargy—he had assumed a new avatar.
©️Orion Foote, 2021
Visions of Orion Poetry 