Poets are gods but die like humans.
I stumbled into this poem, I wrote four years ago. It is centered around poets being gods and how sadly immortal they are. The prominent theme of pessimism in the piece poses serious concern and disturbance. It's appalling in that it depicts the total end of fellow god. Let's dive into it already.

THE DEATH OF A GOD
poets, we are
gods, we are,
We are men and women
who can give life to dead words.

with muted tongues full of ancient wit,
we roar into the deafness of emotions
and rattle the dry bones of wrongs

We're 
gods 
but 
die 
like 
men.

I see clouds gathering 
               and the sun's retiring
melancholy lyrics interlude yet another doomthe night; she is the doom

with a cloak of darkness wrap around her bald head
she strip tease the body of a weary scribbler
until his soul is made naked 
and his body unaware
of life
of light
of letters

like a procession of mourners,
this melancholy lyrics assails the departure of a god
stretched on a bed of stones

I see clouds gather and waters clot
as stillness greet the streets with goodbye songs

I see a barren night sky with no glitzy stars
I see royal glamour fading 
I see dust encroaching his orchard of verses

mother earth swallow up a god
in a single gulp
as a PENalty for being born

we, his fellow muted scribblers will keep spooling words
until mortality betrayed us

#Pengician #SSA


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