Ninety Three . . .

Death of a Poet

By Stormcat

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.

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