A Poet's Death

#1
The Sun filtered through the panes
with reinforced hope. Something
would be new today. It rained
all night. The candle over the table
still burns, after braving the night's storm.

At the study desk,
Byron, Keats, Shelley
lay in tatters. The floor
was adorned with pages of
unfinished poetry.

Among them, one was
stained with blood.
From the scribbling,
some parts of it are readable:

"Poetry is not about
expressing emotions
to paper. It is a medium
through which you hide
your true self.

You become the ocean,
Sun, stars, moon, valleys
hills, and countless other
entities, but in doing so
your original personality
disappears.

Poetry should not be
the veil of mind. But
rather the doorway
which connects the
inner nature to the
outer. Only then will
real thoughts begin
to flow. Abstractions
become crystal and
metaphor lose its
meaning.

In the grand scheme
of things, who cares
if an ocean is rendered
as an ocean, and not the
vastness that resides inside.
Who cares if a mountain
is not seen as a peak of
Transcendence.

But ask me not,
my soul is tainted
I cannot think...
I cannot judge...
I cannot..."

...and the rest of the
page overflowed with
blood.

The Sun hid its gloomy
face, behind a mass of
black clouds. Yes, its
raining again.

And with the wind,
something was rocking,
no,'Twas not a flower
'Twas neither time in a
serpent-knot.

Right on the porch,
in this god-forsaken
loneliness. At a distance
from the ground, tied
to a ceiling, a lifeless body
rocked in gloomy regret.