“When the Poet is Dead”

When the poet is dead

stars will be burning gases

and not homeward diamonds.


When the poet is dead

wonder will wilt into facts

and the facts refuse to blossom wonder.


When the poet is dead

the glittering princess at the ball

weeps after midnight in her ragged, real clothes.


When the poet is dead

the plain, convicting blade has

impaled the lying heart, despite its rosy intentions.


When the poet is dead,

entombed in truth

and buried in reality,

instead of his sensory, invisible wind

blowing lovely, changing letters in time,

only barcode numbers cover his forehead,

only logic, and no rhyme.