Living Poets' Society

A poet doesn’t
go to Heaven.

He may spend seven years in purgatory trying
to formulate a story fit for ghosts;

she may make fertile grounds in every circle
of Hell but the dahlia will

always wither.

A poet doesn’t quite fit into
the skin they were given until it’s

almost peeling off.

Like a love of warmth that doesn’t manifest until winter’s present, a poet’s only destined for anonymity until faraway cities celebrate his passing; even then his work is neither everlasting nor complete. And until we meet again, there may be few trials from my time you can relate to, for I was groomed to be ignored, and not until I’m gone would one seek my corporeal being. But they will only find stanzas and rhymes, a veranda of fleeting diatribes less fragile than I was, and a love of reading into the lives of others.

O mother of verses,
my long-suffering burden,

we living poets
are locusts; not
until we die does
the lotus come

into full
focus,

apertures capturing
true loneliness in full.

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