Archive 03/03/11 - (2)

 

   

The Ghost Writers

                                                                  

 

All I've left behind me, after seventy years of death-festering

(Forty-four of them on artistic life-support),                                      

Is an unfollowed moldy-bread-crumb trail of Holocaust poems.

I've been scribbling, scratching, clawing my free-verse curses

On crumbling earthen walls lining the crypts of my psyche,

Hoping the worms, at least, might learn and memorize my lyrics,

Disinter those stifled, throttled, trammeled words

Into the clear, green-blue limelight of darkness's deepest ether,

Acknowledge me as author of the Hebrew Book of the Dead.

But nothing I've composed has come to the surface,

Illuminated illiterates, racists, the blind led by those who blind,

Or spoken my admonitions to those who prophesy final solutions.

And so it is, tonight, that, as I write, in sleep's endless suspension,

I realize why my verses arrive dying or dead,

Imbued with the flagrant plague-fragrance of prussic-acid almond:

Made of vapors, flames, burned dreams, charred hopes, ashes,

They speak only to those who feed the worms,

And they know my poetry, by heart...they're still composing it.

 

 

 

 

 

        

03/03/11 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 

 
   
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