A Requiem for Poetic Gifts
I write in prose because I am incapable of inspired verse. I write so you will know. So, that you will know the beauty of the poetic mind. Beautiful yes, but not the poet’s beauty. Only the beauty of God that the poet may possess. And only for season. Like radiant feminine beauty in the flower of youth. My only regret is ignorance. Ignorance of beauty fading.
And here I have digressed to prose. How shameful for the poet that escaped psychiatric incarceration. Who walked the train tracks out of desperation and love. Oh, for love. Glorified poetic love. And yes music. The echoes of monstrous bells toll the horrors of a hundred years in hell.
And I was chain-smoking possessor of words. A colossus of words. An ever-flowing spiritual fount of words. And now shall I lay down and die? Shall I go fight and die a good death in Ukraine? Or shall I live out my life in shame? Oh, perishing beauty take me with you to Hades. Let Persephone and Eurydice be my muse. Let me quench the thirst of Tantalus with an immortal verse.
Let me die with you…so we can be together.