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.
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