The dichotomy of the poet is that they wish death
upon themselves to immortalise their words.
But to increase their estate, they write with fervor,
procrastinating swallowing the poison.
Secretly, if you’re true to your art, you long for death.
But the elite of the elite,
They covet life.
They have learned a death not reserved for laymen.
They have learned how to kill themselves
Whilst their heart beats on,
Whilst their art breathes on.
They have learned the death of the self.
That ugly life clinging abased thing
That keeps you shackled to the spectre
of frivolity and fame.
They are immortalised before a bodily death.
They are immortality manifest.