I Am the Dead Poet

I Am The Dead Poet Strains of Bach’s Brandenburg, And billows of brown smoke Rise up together like crazed conniving snakes Here in the toxic suburban shadows Where once again, no one will care. My voice, my words, my ideas, Like a comatose rain Evaporate into nothing. I am the dead poet. As dead as yesterday. As dead as tomorrow. As dead as Eden. Have you seen the hitchhiker with thumb out? Have you seen the grasping blind man, Pleading with the diminishing light? Have you seen the dead poet Probing the universe with his pen? I am the dead poet. The only living person in a dead world. Time is the ultimate Master. Time is the ultimate Slave. Everything moves in perfect elliptical circles. Do you feel the incessant circling And turning and gyrating of the universe? Centrifugal forces and my swirling hot blood. They know what’s happening. I am the dead poet, And I can feel it. Here in the toxic suburban shadows. Where once again, no one will care.