Poets do not die,
They flutter
militantly
Transposing eventualities
and acuity
death is alchemy
and range
it is paramountcy
Transcendence
For a poet’s death is apotheosis
Acme
Poets die to become Gods
Always a hamlet
a shaman,
a sphere
A memory of a mortal coil
Poets write because they love us
Natheless
Poets die unescorted by the immensity of their worlds of words
A register
How do we keen over prophets who give gifts in death ?
Poets do not die
they become space
Jazz and a conviction
Poetry as form is a way of dying
In death
poets become a sum of their revolutions and ancestors
Sing a lark home,
Sing her a throne fit for too many years of making worlds through
consonance and vowels
You loved her in flesh
love her now as air and magic ethereal
Myesha now lives as music
Sing her radically
Sensually
Poignant
and complex
A lark
Write her a giant
a tradition
A new groove
Myesha now lives in music
With her voice haunting us with each poem
And each word now a spiritual
