Hasten Poet Bring Your Imagination
O Marvel, Earth’s treasurers, Air and Trees
Hasten poet, bring your imagination, brandish your pen,
initiate your truths, bring your ideals – use oak, elm, and maple.
Poets die natural deaths, flesh deaths, but their words retain life.
Poets leave this earth plane, becoming dust to dust, under acorns.
What remains is all that ever was
All that ever mattered
Their ideas prancing like leaves
Dazzling, spinning heart-shaped missives.
Angels collect our spirits, and we do not hesitate
Traveling rapidly from this plane, heading toward Nirvana
Caring not what or who is left
They do not yet know us
But some will
Because of the parchment we left behind
The scribblings on trees
The acorns of ideas other poets will use to build their oaks
Some will peter out quickly
Others will turn into a magnificent forest
That shows the world what we meant in the first place.
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