Dead POETS…

I awoke from a terrible dream,
A horrible fright that I will never escape,
I was subject to the Spanish Inquisition,
On trial for doing what I do best,
Writing,
They proclaimed that I was a blasphemer,
Because I question the laws of nature,
As professed by “their God”.

As I sat,
Listening to witness testimony,
That was more creative than anything I could ever produce,
Or have ever written,
I became mortified by the prospect,
That my life,
Will be cut short,
For reasons not unlike the Salem Witch trials,
For something over which I have no control,
This went on for hours,
And each testimonial seemed destined to send me to the afterlife,
At least I knew that Virgil and Dante would be there waiting for me,
I wondered who else might be there,
All the while thinking;
“And yet it moves.”
No inhibition when battling inferior minds,
Inferior conventions!

Asked to stand before the kangaroo court,
The show trial of the millennia,
I refused to obey,
For I did not concede that they held dominion over me,
(My body perhaps but not my spirit)
Clearly my mission was one of refuting what was already widely seen as irrational,
“Do you accept our God?”
I did not answer,
Asked again moments later, I still did not move an inch,
Nor say a word.

It was here that the dream took a menacing turn,
Testimonials complete,
It was time for sentencing,
Though there was never a doubt in my mind as to the sentence,
Again,
I was asked to stand before the court,
And before God,
And still I refused,
“For your insolence and ignorance,
For your continued blasphemy and clear lunacy…”

The next sentence came in fast forward;

“You are sentenced to death in the most painful way possible,
You will suffer for your sins,
You will suffer for your indignation.”

I started to laugh as I sat in direct defiance of the supposed,
Godly men that sat before me,
Thinking to myself,
These are the emissaries of God on earth,
God help us all.

Only a few days went by,
Before I was called to my fate,
The purging of a mind that shirks convention,
Bound and shackled,
I was led to an awaiting crowd,
Overflowing and teeming masses,
Huddled to watch my death,
The Scarlet genius’ sitting perched over them,
I was tied down to a stone tablet,
Instruments of torture used upon my flesh,
Though I did not bleed,
Only words flowed out of my body,
With each gash asked if there was anything I would like to confess,
My confessions floating freely from my spirit,
Dangling over the supposedly divine personages,
My essence,
Words,
Continued to flow,
Endlessly,
More gashes,
More words,
More words,
More gashes,
Until finally,
I woke up…

With the following in my head;

“Neck laudas nisi mortuos poetas: tanti non est, ut placeam, perire”
Meaning…” If only dead poets are praised, I’d rather go unsung”

These words,
Flowing…

SDM

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