Oh Poet

innocent blood running softly

across the ground,

pouring out the sad sweetness

which makes you all that

you are;

the cell grows smaller,

the chains pull tighter;

solitary;

it is all that you deserve;

everything that was

asked for,

in the end

became reality,

only distant memories

are left;

the ultimate denial,

the absolute illusion,

the final humiliation;

let it flow,

feel its implicit texture,

round and rough,

bubbling up like some

forgotten brew,

bitter with vile,

forsaken by death,

floating in timeless gel;

I don’t know

if I can ever return

to this place

called home,

in this land of love

it all comes out wrong,

it all seems so ridiculous,

like it never really was;

oh poet,

deny thy craft,

speak not,

lest someone hears

your voice.

.

.