The
Dying Poet
She’s
dying, and reading her poetry
on social
media is like watching a frog
cooking
in a slow-boiling pot of water;
it’s
agony. How I so wish for her to step
out
of the paradigm of her life-long
patterns
of thought that shaped her story;
it
would do her poor soul a world of good
to
let go of her smothering belief system
and
try something dramatically different,
like
the promising age-old idea that when
our
body dies, we step through a door
into
a whole new life that gives us another
opportunity
to realize our true self. I’m
sorry
to say, really, I am, that as much
as her
sad little poems ache to move me,
my
heart refuses to weep for her, because
I
know that all of this is true, and I would
so
love to see an essential shift in her frantic
verse
before she takes her leave once more
from
this beautiful, misunderstood world;
it would
truly be a joyous miracle.
Composed
in Georgian Bay, Ontario
Wednesday,
March 5, 2024
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