Just another poet.
There will always be
another poet to take my place.
In the pillars of heaven and pits
of hell is a particle of those passed.
Beliefs of Muslim burial with honors
in the sea within hours of death.
Hindu cremation in the Ganges River witnesses a transparent
yet raw ritual filters floating dead bodies upside down.
The smell of fish at dinner was so inviting,
that scent of the stench of human flesh rotting and death not so much.
Christians offer prayers at the cross of faith
to raise the poets of merit up from the grave.
Einstein’s physical formula is confused
as he works on this issue of master poets
near his grave; echoes haunt past and present;
he loved so many different women in private, you know.
An online poetry encyclopedia stretches
out pages that best begin to end.
Clay tablets, the Epic of Gilgamesh
Mesopotamia, parchment bits pieces,
yellow padded paper, those restaurant napkins,
scribbled — AI-generated digital design converted fakes.
Ultimately, time guarantees an unfashionable death stamp.
Poets, notices, and rituals are all gone from here undefined.
End this mirror of me, no intellectualism mixing with Jesus’ imagination.
Who are the poetry warriors who rest best on the pillows of gold and silver,
yawning dreams, stubbornness with pain?
Dimly lit, no memory, no response.
