The Verse’s Curse

Do you know how poets die?

(Trick question: as all know 

The ways are legion in 

Which we go.…)

So, does the Lamp of 

Death, with spectrum wide,

Shine its nightlight in

A multitude of 

Brilliant hues, illuming 

Every cranny, leaving no

Nook in which to hide?

A special shade for every 

Soul, 

A custom colour for you all?

A brilliant grief, decorous 

And discrete, leading

Each wan’dring ghost 

Clear through the 

Devouring night 

With Death as guide,

Who calmly waits in that

Elsewhere, where once-live 

Eyes are so surprised 

To find filled a-brim

With fields of light,

So blinding bright.

So, how do poets die?

I ask since I suspect 

But do not truly 

Know, yet I’d speak no 

Lie if I should say I 

Think I do know why.…

Would I guess true 

If I assumed that you 

Know of Norns, who keep 

The measure of all lives

Whether spent in 

Labour hard or in 

Lordly courts as bards.

There, poets rage and write,

Frayed, flayed, aether-fuelled,

The Muses's serfs.

And should a Muse tire

Of its tool, into its

Dreaming ears

The Muse will 

Hiss and whisper, 

A weird of words to 

Gull the poet, all

Unaware and unawake:

Naught but a fool to fall

Far down the well found at

The root of Yggdrasil,

Full-filled with dark

Depressions, from where

Echo still those killing 

Whispers, sonic toxins of

The Muse who once inspired

The poet of whom it tired.

Now the wretch is fed

His last suggestion: 

"Put down your pen, your work 

Is done.…well, mayhap after one last 

Act, after which we Muses 

Swear and vow to fix your

Works amongst the words 

Of the sages of the ages.

All you need do is 

Make some room, leave

A place open at

The sage’s table for 

A fresher pen in 

The artist’s den.

Step out now from 

The Grand Procession;

Your rôle is done in 

The poetic succession,

And I grow glum and

Of you tired, Sir Versifier.

So, like a witch at work 

Upon some mixture,

I’ll bring to boil the pot

Of Time and from its froth

Conjure forth some newborn

Tool for the endless line

Of puppets who do rhyme.

Now leave us please, 

Disappear.

The Norns have cut

Short your time and 

I’ll no longer you inspire.

I suggest that you give up,

That you give in 

Before your rhymes 

Become your crimes.”