At least there is poetry,
Into which to empty
The tortured corpse of the day.
A morticial of embalm
the ravaged body.
A priest to sing hymns
to still the soul
of the recently departed.

He shudders under the whiplash
of the daily hours,
but at night there is the poetry,
like balm, kissing the wounds.

And when he is afire with love,
a screaming inferno
of smoking agony,
surrounded by the
the implacable cavalry
of his unbending mind,
reeling from lance jab
to frothing sword cut,
red, oh red is the flame,
red is his blood,
red is his pain.

Then there is poetry.
So long as there is poetry,
there is life.