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,

in the end,

everything that was asked for,

became reality,

only distant memories left;

the ultimate denial,

the absolute illusion,

the final humiliation;

let it flow,

feel its simplistic 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.

.

.