A Poet Died

A poet died in the fall and no one knew why. Some say, he gave too much of himself in his words, broke the rules of our silly mortality. Wanting his words to come alive, he became them.

He waged great wars and died on the battlefield as the soldiers died around him. Their blood was spilled in mindless violence. All it had was a fury of rage and helplessness. His was spilled as well — a blank canvas of pure acceptance like a mother cradling her new born babe. The two flowed freely together until they became one. When their blood intermingled, he found his words.

He is the sorrowful man trudging on wet sand as the tide washes away his footsteps and slowly, his existence. But walking still towards a lost cause. He is the lost cause condemned to wait forever across the horizon, in darkness which has just descended. As it waits for redemption and carries the weight of all the souls who gave up trying to achieve it. Forever weary, forever waiting.

He is the great love destined to fail. Rising high on euphoric winds of purpose when its born. Nurturing the ship of two gentle lovers through turbulent seas of life. Being the wind which fills their sail, carrying them to unknown lands as they rejoice in their good fate. Raging against its own nature as it invariably crashes the ship on the rocks of inevitability. With its rage, sorrow and deceit dying with the lovers it helped create.

The poet broke his soul and from the shards he made the words he loved so dearly. The carcass of his own self became the shrine he prayed to. Everything broken, lost and forgotten was his lot and he their messiah. Some say a poet died and no one knows why. Some read his words and find his soul reading them back.