The Death of the Poet (Or, No Rhyme or Reason: How Bad Poetry Can Become Good Music)

Often, in the middle of no time There can be a sudden burst Of an energy foreign, but sublime From the get-go, ready to reverse From a place, designed Rooms emptied, abandoned Far into a life resigned Dazed, confused by disappointment And if it was possible to know And it was too good to be true Animals hungered by emptiness grow When left with options so, so few Standards forsaken long ago Rooms are emptied, abandoned Far into a life plateaued Dazed, unlike the life imagined And if it was possible to know And it was too good to be true Animals hungered by emptiness grow When left with options so, so few And if it was possible to know And it was too good to be true Animals hungered by emptiness grow When left with options so, so few Perhaps you wonder why No poets now find the right words Bond with vague ideas that I Sing until it begins to hurt When two souls get to know When it is good and true Animals rest, and slow Are born again, anew And if it was possible to know And it was too good to be true Animals hungered by emptiness grow When left with options so, so few