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 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 implistic 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 hear your voice.
.
.