The Poet

He sits amidst the debris of his work,
Enamoured only with his thoughts.
That chase themselves around,
in cereberal and spitefull pools,
Making mockery of his newfound incoherence.

For what more is there to do?
He has waxed wroth on all matters under sun,
That lie within the harrowed hearts of men.
He has summed up the stars,
Put pen to sky,
And encompassed the very air in poetry.

He has torn open skulls and feasted on the brain.
At best a beast, oft touted as insane.
But now his disciples, ever-present and desperate,
Weigh his words with fervour and respect,
And a burden it must be.

For he has had the world ensnared upon a pin,
Wriggling, dying, wasted.
And when you have the world upon a pin,
How can you begin?
You have already ended.

He has burned people alive for scorning him,
And drunk in the verbosity of their dying shrieks.
He has written of coupling with the devil,
Who deigned to notice his heinous charm,
And convoluted mind.

He has even written of the word!
Structure and nuance torn apart at the seam,
In search of what? What is his goal?
To express? To digress? To destroy or to make whole?
To find his soul?

Before eyes unseen and voices whispered,
He labours at his task – for hours, weeks.
Once complete, a work is useless, nothing!
Worse than nothing.
A scrabble at the slab that is his tomb.

For of course there can be no end,
For one who knows that words are ever his.
The world enslaved by phrase, yet ever-turning.
The ultimate denial,
For he who preaches power and is slave.