The poet, it seemed,
was preoccupied with death and
wrote poems, fiercely stripped
of other intentions and inquiries,
which invited those readers who,
with naive aims and scarcely guarded dispositions,
were invited into the harsh yet peaceful
embrace of the same.
He (the poet) related dearly
to these grim works,
flowing furiously and free from
the heart of hs past disappointments and
future anxieties.
Why, the pale beast such a
sweet seductress surface?
Why dwell on ultimate demise?
Why let the fragrant afternoon
pass, unexamined, into the abyss
of lost Saturdays and holidays
which served only to taunt the
faculties of his reason and
twist the object of his imagination
towards the bitter machinations of
Death itself?