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A Poet Dies and is Bored with Heaven
I lounge about, walk about, crocking
a hymn of praise or two.
Heaven, is heavenly,
or is it a fake and fanciful heaven
created
for fanciful and fake poets?
I sit by a sweetly flowing stream'
a host of gay vividly colorful flowers
speak to me
in the high-falutin language
of antique songs.
It is wonderfully wonderful,
yet I am bored,
bored with the supranormal
and the ethereal nature of nature,
bored with the endless beauty
of all that I encounter.
The loveliest woman I have ever seen
visits my moody meditations,
she tells me to write and to stop ing,
but I just cannot,
for I cannot pen the transcendental
or sublime, without mentioning the ugly,
and the dark history of suffering
and there is no dark suffering here,
not even a sniffle or a tear.
I am bored, not unhappy only bored,
and I want to go back
to my shatty life and write
about my misery and yours.
I figure heaven is not a location
but a state of mind,
and that my heaven in reality
is a place
where demons and angel's battle
for the right to fight on -
forever.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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