What is a poet?

she drank and drank and sought oblivion – none came.

there was no euphoria, no altered plane

just a steady numbing

yet she heard it all and saw all – missed nothing,

he was indeed a poet of no mean proportion

a short-lived van gogh of words

bent to self-destruction on her path to knowing.

lips a line drawn thin – no resemblance to a mouth. 

lids distort the sound of eye and crepe covers the brittle bones

dry laughter dying, dying pall.  might as well not have been here at all. 

times she wonders why we bother.  what’s the draw?

raw pleasure of flesh, the painful parallel of love and hate.

do we want too much to feel or taste anything that we take it up so easily?

do we expect more of it than what it is that we so desperately seek the siren’s call?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: