The poet is Dead

1995

The poet is dead

on the blank screen

on which - if not shut off -

life's going to display

the washing dishes

of the every day,

the lying down with only pain to say.

A beast on the hunt for what feels good,

when nothing does anymore.

 

Where the lush grass felt warm

to the feet of the sundancers

holding close to the fire

icy laughter echoes from dead mountains.

Crazy utterings of animalish sounds

of her who threw away the shields

and stepped out of the camouflage

into the battlefields.

 

The poet is dead

the smoke of the passion

lingers over the ashes

of inspirations and destinations.

The cruel bell chimes

to announce the death

of the words and rhymes.

The poet is dead.

And the dance of the sun

echoes from dead mounts

in crazy utterings of animalish sounds.