RIGOR MORTIS
the poet dies tonight,
after an overdose on alliterations,
ingests metaphoric pills in excess,
And injected liquid anaphoric repetitions
now he draws his last breath,
watching the highlights,
of his life,
right in front of his eyes,
as they pass by in split seconds,
it was a beauty!
filled with eye-catchy,
perfect rhyming,
iambic patterns
what an exclamation
twisted into words, spoken in oratic lullabies,
perfectly stressed,
and unstressed patterning,
he is art,
and in art he is
a portrait,
painted words in rainbow colours,
mixing thoughts and emotions,
into murals,
how alive was he?
in our imagery he sat,
like a fly on a wall,
He watched us,
he was a grand master,
in jinxing poetic alchemy,
from the sound of the trees,
the sight of the sun,
to the taste of the sea,
he was a Picasso of words,
the davinci of stanzas
the artist suitable,
for painting Dorian gray,
his life was,
his muse,
his existence was made of ink,
he inspired a lot of us with his arresting words,
captivating diplomatic words,
swaying us in his anthologies,
now he is both anthology,
and chapbook
he led love into the backroom of his lines,
and his love?
was in his criticisms,
his rage was the collapse of thundery words into the ocean of lava,
his pen!
was his Achilles heels,
and his strength
now his eyes are closed,
his blood coagulated,
into word mechanism,
thesaurus of sort and encyclopedic papers,
his body stiff,
from the left over,
of historical reunion,
of writing.
he was art,
and art he was,
a poet that lived for words,
a doctor of images ,
a painter saving lives,
an executioner of art,
an inventor of realities,
he was Disney but with words,
as his men
now art is dead,
leaving behind dog-eared clichés,
seen in the context of those who imitate or try to be him,h
he is a poet
rigor mortis,
a masterpiece.
©Mr khyroo