Burned the rim and the wind did swirl
Across the realm the flags unfurl
The watcher waits to glimpse redemption
Or at least the freedom of exemption.
Then headlong to complacency,
The poet seeks out vacancy.
A place where he can hang his head,
And wait until his words are dead.
What motivates his troubled mind
To leave convention far behind,
And push on stones until they roll,
To eulogize his sacred soul?
His words are called out after him,
Igniting pyres along the rim.
His embered ashes cascade down,
And singe the rooftops of the town.
In this way he is remembered,
As his words become dismembered.
Then feelings that his poems evoke,
Will fly away as wisps of smoke.
Until none read his words one day,
Then the long dead poet will fade way.