Death of a Poet

Dear poet
Why must you be as you are
Why must you be awake
When all the others are sleeping
Why must you look so far
Searching beyond the stars
Your heart is too open
Your thoughts too lofty
Your words too disturbing
Leave those things now
And become like us

And so the poet relinquished
He took the knife that was offered
And began to cut
He cut away the pieces of himself
That made him who he was
To become another
He cut out his heart
That he might not feel
No love or pain
No joy or sorrow
He cut away his soul
That he might not dream
Travelling to future and past
To heaven and beyond
He cut out his tongue
That he might not speak
No more words to offend
Or enlighten would he offer
He cut out his eyes
That he could look no longer
Upon the secret places
Above and below
And farther still
He stopped up his ears
That he could not hear
The whispers of the universe
The songs in the rain
The riddles on the wind
He cut out his brain
That he could no longer
Think upon the deep things
To understand the mysteries
He removed everything
And when he had finished his task
He laid down to sleep
Blood and poetry flowed out
Upon his bed, a warm torrent
Of self, and he felt nothing

28 thoughts on “Death of a Poet

    • So true! As poets / artists we look at things differently than others, we see meaning in the obscure, we feel things deeply. Not everyone understands that about us. I’m just discovering that myself. And when the words come from wherever (the aleph – have you read that book?) Then we need to record them, not everyone gets that about us. Thanks DD for reading and for the great comment!

      Liked by 1 person

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