the poet is dead
but the pen still got an ink
the poem is in rhythm
but i can't figure out the meaning
where the writer writes to write
and not to be written
where it all starts
and the eye darts
on the ****** white page
deeply savaged
by thoughts in mind
serene and appealing
laughing and dancing
to concretize these thoughts
to make immaterial material
to transcend something spiritual
the poet is dead
yet he is living
not lurking in the dark
but educating
the future in the making