This is the time of the poet
the final prophetic sigh
before man dies
the silent voice from deep inside
that reaches back
past the primal
back to darkness…Black
before fire filled the air
with crimson color
back…to Black

This is the time of the poet
gone the strutting imbeciles
fools gold false gods
and tinkling brass
gone too the vanities of logic
reason order
stripped bare
left there
to ponder gifts freely given:
a cool breath of spring air
naked feet in fresh donkey dung

A time to feel to love
time to die
that a tree might live

This is the time of the poet
to memorialize the final folly
of fallen man
then be thrown pen in hand
upon the flaming pyre
abject oblation of flesh
to earth wind and fire