The voice of a dead poet
calling out from his grave 
asking me to follow his visions. 
Once a spirit he is now just 
one of the many souls
who have remained here to 
be with the living.
His passionate thoughts. 
His causes. 
The moment in his life when he failed
to realize who he was.
His fears preventing him from 
finding his place in the afterworld.
the dead poet has awakened from his death.

The beating that comes from his heart.
The pounding of the drums. 
The tribes of commerce 
who call out to his dream.
They recite his name in prayer,
looking to find the means to combat 
the oppressors of their different societies.

I dance to his testimonial
in the heat of the night.
I dance to his living death.

No, 
he was not a Saint 
and some say that he was 
not even a considerate man.
But he was a concerned individual
one who was aware 
of what was happening 
around him,and what the world 
would be like if humanity did 
not take care of the land.         

The beating of his heart. 

I can hear his cries of 
suffering.His words of pain.
He is asking us to fight 
to take arms against 
the establishment of social 
injustices.To take down the walls 
of religious prejudices.
The words of his revolution 
playing on vinyl spy recording.

His verses ingrained in the minds 
of those who are out there 
looking for Nature’s truth.
He is the messenger 
of a concerned sect.
His death, the signaling of 
the second coming.

The figure of the dead poet, 
a voice of enlightenment,
a symbol of man 
standing against ideal empires.

The full moon casting a spell 
over our consciousness.
The poet’s ghost dancing under the stars 
his soul looking to be freed.
The blood bleeding from his heart 
his visions staining my mind.

The beating of the drums.
His poetry tapping the injustices 
of a free enterprise.
He is crying out to us. 
Shouting out to us from his grave. 
Burn it down. Burn it. 


Burn it to the ground.

The dead poet has returned and 
there is no way I can escape his voice.
He has taken me to his grave
shown me the emptiness of the next world.
Shared with me the plans of the deceiver.
He has witnessed the repeating death 
traitors of God receive when found gulity. 
He has returned to show us the way 
of our salvation.
He is here right now. He is inside my mind.

Realities madness taking me beyond reasoning.

Poet: Joseph Mayo Wristen
Poem: An Epithet for the Dead Poet
Volume: The Code

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