Autumn In The Southern Hemisphere Poem by Troy Cochran

A poem is a state of mind, not even ink,
Before the poet oversteps the soft edge of his stream
And, too late for himself, descends to think.

In the brutal truth of deepening
He only knows himself by mute attempts to scream;
He gurgles what he cannot drink;
Vomits what he does not mean.

The torrential swelling of his annual monsoon
Has only brought him mud and flotsam from the hills;
He cannot swim; he flails; he swoons;
He goes Brazil.

He thinks he dreams, but his dream is him.
He dements, and spills,
In moodiness, not even ink, that carries Him!

He is rejected by the stink of his own Amazon.

He thinks he has been filled; but no,
He has been killed:
The poem is his epitaph in stills.

But he does not mourn himself, as the world mourns him:
He knows that when the seep of rising tributaries come,
He will die again.