The True Artist Lives By His Art, or Dies. He Does No Harm to Anyone for not Receiving Him.
I
Nature destroyed
And in place there are statues of bronze,
The trees garish
And in place men read my poetry,
The trees bud in the winter
And in place we get plays,
The animals die
And in place we get democracy…
I will not make a prediction.
The trees might live,
But they are budding in January and February.
Something needs done.
The world will rejoice,
While we Christians will mourn.
That is the prophecy.
Another season
Tapped out of time.
Where, oh wear
Does the worry on my soul.
Every divination is false.
Every sign in nature is deaf.
The five bluebirds I saw in winter coat,
They please me, to show me one last time their color.
If there is anything for me here
Let it come.
If not, take my soul away,
Let me hide in the grave.
Sadness permeates my bones.
Sadness.
Madness permeates my bones.
What I want is right before me.
Some wind takes it away.
The myth of Guinevere daunts me
Adultery stings my brow.
How men, giving everything they have
End up with nothing in the end.
How happiness is fleeting.
Madness. Let me have my heifer and two sheep.
And I mean anger, not insanity.
B. K. Neifert 