The aged book filled with leaves turns to unveil a man, Atlas-like – bowed, broken, & torture racked on a wooden frame. In the book, crushed down and up again.

Millions say the words live. Entertain, and watch stony hearts become flesh. Others blame. And this way, remain the same: habitations of corpses. Who, rather than listen, rage. Saying the book’s aim is insane. Thus, death’s reign is their only domain.

They are like cheeky poems that said, “our poet is mad; kill him!” The master poet’s words became bloody tears weeping for these, his uncompleted works. Yes, it’s already written in the book, all there, between the eloquent leaves leafed with gold.

*

Limericist, 2008