Why direct attention to a swan with ripped-off wings?
It's a good question, and we'll come to that.
Now, a heirachy established
to benefit those on the lower rungs.
This is a unicorn. 
Bread and butter to a poet.

A poet in fashion must now describe
a horse, sprayed white, narwhal's horn
screwed into the forehead.

The mythological creature
inspirational epitome of beauty
remains free regardless.

In an escalating war of words
a flying unicorn will be
leapt upon as a godsend.

The avant-garde poet does not hesitate
ripping off the wings of a swan
stitching them to the shoulder of a nag.

The avant-avant-garde poet directs
attention to the swan with ripped off wings
obtuse and perverse you might think.

The poet, the avant-garde poet
and the avant-avant-garde poet
remain free of repute, as Cassandra.

A voice is raised nevertheless, part understood.
A thousand voices cry out, a million
ears are lent. A reality of sorts is touched.

The unicorn lent one breath of oxygen
never concieves
of itself as a unicorn.