Death of the Poet
From dust to dust and poets to their crypts
and words go down with sunken ships.
Vibrating words no longer rattle the spine
and the prose no longer tastes that of wine.
The tides and the moon are no longer lovers
and the sea empties out as the twilight hovers.
Romance is a word that lies still in the mind
and the motion of the waves has no rhyme.
Passion is a river with no where to go
and fly with the rivers of the skyward flow
and the voices of the wind and its eternal echoes
burn up in the heat of the flaming snows.
The real has a hold on the moble truth
that flies to one another, then gets up to move.
It joined the world of the black and white
and the stillness of the never ending night.
The poets that ride upon the metal clouds
fall back to earth into the common crowds
with their words still left behind and forgotten
as they crash and burn, never to rise up again.
From dust to dust, from the real to the imaginary,
from the poetic to the unreal, then to the real again.
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