by inches, a poet dies

there won’t be a twenty one gun salute no solemn procession as my body is presented to the masses clamoring for one last look at the fool before the eternal flame sputters out leaving a greasy stain on the cheap wooden cross

no fanfare or papal smoke rising from the vatican to signal the coming of a new lackluster poet that looks like the last shitty scribe just reborn like a phoenix in a state of decline looking more like a leather satchel than a real person

i die, leaving an imperceptible void where the aether isn’t polluted by the constant cries slipped in between heavy handed metaphors and beating the same corpse with the same bat because i am incapable of being anything more

no more pithy tapes of people that may or may not have ever existed or may or may not be slices of the wretch with too myopic a focus on the fungus that spreads along the soft tissue a human giogi apparatus lost in mitochondrial envy

tired, i am just tired but i die tonight and the person that wakes isn’t going to be the same by any stretch not this monstrosity three sevenths into shedding himself into something lesser than the sad creature that laid shaven head to pillow

make sure she knows i loved her, and in the end they were all for her since the moment her light lit the darkness of my world in a panoramic vision of singular beauty, mind heart and body, each word a kiss from forehead to toe

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