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.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Joseph Mayo Wristen's poem An Epithet for the Dead Poet

1 Comment

  1. joseph mayo wristen says:

    Rhythm If you ever visit here again and would like a copy of this poem Mike being read from a CD it might help you find the Rhythm you find missing in it. It is actually 1 part of 48 different poems that make up the a major work called “ the code” so it takes understanding he entire work to probably catch the meaning to this particular part.
    Sorry it offended you so much, best luck to you out there.

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