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?
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8/29/2026 12:05:23 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
