The End.

A Poem by K. Harding

The death of the Philosopher.

This is the end...

The philosopher is dead...

The quill turned loose from his fingers - descended into the dead lands of poetic dysfunction. Ink translated hallucinations. Fashioning percipience into nightmares, innocence into enigmatic psychosis.

Empyrean wines contrived from his blood. Arcadian winds twined his breath, resonating anguish through history. Time greeted him like an old friend and grew old together. They become senile together.

When time lost its wisdom, the fires no longer burned.

Paradise incarcerated the philosopher - for he had no tale to tell. No rhyme burdened his tongue. A forlorn writer whom words had long forgotten. His stories had become the same, developed throughout a planetary life, into silence.

The tranquil silence became his asylum, the one to listen to his decaying sanity. Intoxication numbing the sobriety of psychological hysteria. The man had become exactly who he sworn never too. A poet perpetually imprisoned in his own mind.

This is the end...

The philosopher is dead...

Cast his ashes into the waterfalls laden by his beauty. Tuck him in his coffin in the rain, weep no more. His oceans were vast and immortal. He is the wind, the rain and snow. The blue and white fairytale sent to protect. Send him a goodnight kiss; remember his last breath as his lullaby.

A sacrificial martyr, beguiling sceneries painted in blood. The pendulum swaying to his silent song, a gesture of respect for an old friend - as time bids farewell to his companion. His stories will echo through the blood of our ancestors, and the wolfs cry. Native tongues will know your name, the lost child of hope.

This is the end...

But, the philosopher shall live forever.

© 2016 K. Harding

My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register

Reviews

andrew mitchell

You're a very good writer. Read like some Greek mythology masterpiece, or Roman history. thanks for sharing

Posted 8 Years Ago

jacob erin-cilberto

the poet is a philosopher and lives through his or her works left behind...sounds something like anne sexton...who was pretty much written out when she committed her suicide...

and very much poe-ish this write...

it seems he died a thousand deaths...and yet his heart beat on, just like in his telltale heart story..something you just can't kill...the poet's undying spirit.

j.