I walked in the woods today, the seasons have changed
Amongst the stillness of the tress and the slumbering air
I touched myself in surprise for I thought the poet in me had died.
A death not as romantic as dying itself
A vision where you hold hands with others around you
All your sins forgiven, they cling to you as if you are a phoenix.
My death (if you like) was dust and matter
the stench of a rabid mind, infested by boredom
Perhaps it was the life of a nondescript pattern
Countless back and forth, repeat, rewind the acts of living.
That in the end the chores that involve life
Strangled my breath and filled the hours with dread
Slowly I became an alien
And the beloved words failed me.