Left Hanging (Poetry)

He is gone —
that juggler with words
that conjuror of beauty —
a seer-through of all
that is absurd
and needs to be examined —
picked apart —
a post mortem on the aching
undead heart
that fears what’s waiting —
flapping its black wings
and circling hungry
aching to begin
again

The philosopher
has finished with his poetry —
too near the truth for safety
thought has bled him dry
The poet cannot bear
faith’s uncharitable politics
the page has emptied
of all light
lies blinded his good eye
formed cataracts
the mediocre critic missed
unedited those last lines ran
out screaming
lost as madmen
on a city’s streets

Now there’s a silence
left hanging heavy
a pin-drop edgy
y  a  w  n    i n g
                                dread