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.