LAMENTATIONS

by David Eide

The sorrow the poet feels penetrates the source of all sorrow. A potential that is seeded at the heart is exhausted. The anqels are weeping. And at the wound of weeping angels the poet says that he will aim his simple weapon at what taunts the heroic self. Down goes the bitter heart at hearing its protests that rise against the iron face of stars. Where is the grateful spirit that dances to the music of earths death chant?

When winter closes over the fires of imagination does the spirit stoke itself with rejected hopes of obscure, forgotten people? A common, bitter mind grasps the vulnerability of the sublime and plots out a sort of revenge. What determines whether there is murder or beauty? What is so shocking is that they do not see the necessity of the poet to protect that which gives him life.

A happy poet laughs at his pretensions. This comes right after a religion comes into being. It comes during a moment when the universe is comprehended. But then, after, the poet must do ad hoc research on the stimulus of the present time. Is it ripe for poets? Perhaps it is too ripe. They will becone fanatics and destroy all ripeness in them. The poet sees this a moment before they utter their first word so ends his day in sorrow,