O' requiem of the dead poets
Alighted your vigor,
Your ancient souls do rest in the grave.
Your words course through me...
The subtle, inauspicious meanings
That the madman sees and says,
"Aha, it says nothing."
So little is said that is said
Loud, bold and obnoxious.
Inebriation of subtle inquiries
Subtle thoughts and subtle shadows
Of thoughts. I ask, "Why do you need
"A meaning that is loud, and bold
"When Rhetoric favors ignorance?
"However, subtle souls have taught me subtlety
"And with that the mingling of all knowledge."

Yet, it was foreseen that the man of inquiry
Did not want revealed the heart of another man
But to only look into a reflective pool.
He did not want to share, or understand.
Merely to have his own ideas shouted back at him.

Thus, blood ran in the streets.
Thus, dead were wheeled through the thoroughfares
For seven days of revolution.

All for loud, droning war songs
And not the quiet voice of reason
Understanding its world,
And gaining from it packets of wisdom
Which does not gallivant through the street
Nor does it make its words an enchantment.
It, rather, seeks to understand what others are too busy to understand
And pass by, leaving its little packet of pollen upon the pistil
To germinate into the next budding spring.

While pseudo-philosophers war over who is right
And who's brand of ideology shall be superior...
We, the poets---who are long dead, or shall die---
Leave behind the subtlety of more ancient wisdoms
Which the world, as it fights its wars
Would some day soon find again
And see there upon the page what folly it was
That right and wrong were not to be won by the muzzle of a gun
But were simply to be found, and rediscovered
A thousand times by
Us, the poets who are dead, or shall be dead.