The Poet Died Poem by Harry Biosah

The Poet Died



Must I, a muse,
Drink from the cup of quietus
Like the Master Sculptor?
Or, die this lurid, subtle, heroic death
Wished by Herodias
For her catharsis?
Or,
As Cicero,
Have my atruism guilotined
For scripting good verses?
Then, hereafter inquire: et tu my love?

Sunday, September 20, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: life and death
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