THE POET SINGS...
The poet on his deathbed, surrounded by no one, sings endless volumes of exaltation, in tongues that never falter, never slide. "We are the numberless celebrations" he exclaims. "God's creatures in fortitude and deliverance!" He takes a breath, then another...he whispers "Oh why have you forsaken me? Why have you undone me? Why am I spent?" But the room is empty, the room is silent. Deathbed and tomb intertwine, interflux. The poet looks to the window, it is wide and open. Skies clamber for attention. They are deep purple, they are pale blue, they are as translucent as diamonds, as broken as old teeth. He sighs, but relinquishes. Trees gorge on words and spit out sigils in numberless rivers. Spells and incantations creep through the open window, wind themselves around the ankles and wrists of the poet. They clamber and fold around heart and lungs. The poet takes a large breath and restarts the songs of exaltation: "I am blest in countless incantations, I am the star of heavens undiscovered. I am the poet of wild adventure, I am..."
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