poem

 The Death of the Poet

The ear gets better

While the heart 

Contracts 

The door gets wider

While the hall light

Refracts

Certainty swells

While wonder

Retracts

Every gentle nuance 

Gets added to a  giant pile of 

Facts 

The thin glass through which you see

The world is starting to show it’s

Cracks 

I no longer require the services

Of a Colt revolver, someone just fetch me a

Pickax

Any stumbled upon bon mot

Is only a case of lucky

Syntax

Staring into the black abyss

Is no longer just the price but a built-in sales

Tax

The white swan displays herself 

But you refuse to look until it

Quacks

The words become notes

To an old piano song

Played over and over again

Until it dies the death

Of a thousand tiny

Impacts 

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