The Death of Poets

Ω

Is it any wonder how writers,

even so young-

their faces tight and bright with sun,

their eyes agleam-

how yet they still succumb

to emptiness?

their faucets dripping dry

an empty sky

no air; nowhere to run

no thoughts to dream?

·

Then let the bullets fly

let blades invade the vital stream

let souls depart

.

And in ascension seem

to find their heart