The Poet

Artwork: Emily O'Neill


The poet is slain

she lies in vain,

wishing, praying, for that sweet refrain.

For years she has craved

a breath of salvation –

her pen lies empty,

the words are broken –

trapped –

temporary relief.

She is crying.

The poet dies,

the poet cries –

around and around we go

children on a carousel.

We think we escape,

but never.

Never –

the poet is silenced.

She lives in the shadows –

forced to write without a sound,

her own death note.

She is empty.


The poet is killed,

she lives unfulfilled –


Sylvia –

tell Emily, I am on my way home –

Ophelia calls to me,

I can hear her, in the daffodils.

We are all one –

you and I –

we are soldiers,

wading in on the tide –

searching for the light.

For when she is fallen – deep within the flowers,

the poet sighs –

She is free.