Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.*

Poetry conceives no meaning,
it is complete in its creation
as am I, as are you,
as are crows exploding
outside in the fevered air
or inside as worms slithering
in penumbral silence;
it provides no self-help,
no profound apocalypse
beyond delight in genesis
and what is engendered there.
That is enough to deliver
to thoughtless children
dancing and laughing and unaware
that death and decay turn with them
stalking beauty in the carefree air.
Poets speak only words not truths,
speak only to create wonder
from unconstrained imagination
beyond which bounds they may not dare.
   ~mce