Death of a Poet
I read a poet who had lost his love and thought
of you. Of us. The why it feels. The standing,
on a ledge, no way down, no way up, save your
agency to accept or reject and that inability to
thus choose. There are words (derogatory and
venomous) words forbidden, rejected by choice,
by that same agency.
To loose one's love is horrible. But for a poet . . .
such is an existential crisis of the unquenchable
oeuvre. What is to become of all those exquisite
declarations of never-endingness. Such poetry
never to be discarded has become a lie. How can
a poet publish a lie? Thus it can never be read
again. Poetry diluted is moot.
And if his poetry is moot then that poet has no
purpose and life itself . . . ? Moot! Beauty ceases.
Nature withdraws. Stars no longer sparkle and
songbirds annoy. Flowers look like weeds and
food becomes tasteless. Music seems intrusive
but silence, intolerable. Left only is cowardly
nonexistence, inebriation, death.