Ballad of the dead mind poet



A gardener of foliac prose, word eternally in bloom.
Beauty grown with every stroke of the pen.
endless genius, in perpetual rows.
A green thumb philosopher, born from wordy obscurity.
A mind sharper than the points he sets into play.

Yet, as each day becomes yesterday.
his mind steps closer and closer to disarray.
Memory in mimicry of those that came before.
The same cross that his father, and his father bore.
Madness of the grandest magnitude.
Despite all the visits to the wet stone, his dulling is still inevitable.
What once came so easily, is now congenitally invaluable.

Plenty of seeds to share yet fingers tied to the ware.
Thoughts that sprout aplenty, contrasted by action ever wilting.
Insanity brought about by both heredity, and the fading ability to relinquish his vocabulary.
As his literature becomes sparse, so too does his meaningful thoughts.

Implicitly immune from his father's ales.
spored by conduct that didn't seem would fail.
But betrayed like a thirst hungry rose, being struck down by ill-fated hail.
Fallen to fester on fates fallowed field, sullen for the nectar it could still spend to yield.
The loss of his love, through the loss of his mind.
A lifetime in practice, in a moment left behind.

Yet, As the sun sets on an ebbed intellect, and pedals dwindle past the count of singular. he is given a passing moment to reflect, as his consciousness is given a second to linger.

On a life spent well.

Gleefully given in pursuit of his craft. brimming with both a bit of both heaven and hell, but despite it all still finds reason enough to laugh.

His callous replaced with contentment.
His sadness relieved of resentment.
The pain of the encroaching ending, traded for the Joyice frolic of the journey.

Happy he had an hour in his heyday.
Happy he had a life worth losing, that he had a life worth missing.
Instead of finding relief in its finish.
Find its very existence as something to relish.

As the blanket of disillusion and disassociation lays to rest, a man freed from his odious pest.
He can gleefully give a gracious grin in the face, and in spite of the fate that brought his end.

That in the act of catching the abyss staring back, he can send a sneer that sends fear into astomatous' lack.
to give the harbinger of man's defeat a taste of his vulnerable grief.

To give a splinter to the puppeteer, as a reminder of man's chagrin. To pull back on the stings, so that god get a taste of man's feeling, and so man can get a taste of gods, subsequently.

About this poem

A fear I live with, an inevitability.

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Written on November 04, 2019

Submitted by blake.edward.mccool on May 15, 2024

2:28 min read
109

Quick analysis:

Scheme XXXAB BBCCXDD XEAX XFFXGG X X X HHA BEII XX XX A
Characters 2,510
Words 491
Stanzas 12
Stanza Lengths 5, 7, 4, 6, 1, 1, 1, 3, 4, 2, 2, 1

B.E.McCool

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3 Comments
  • PCBGirl
    At 72 years old, this is a evil little devil sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear every single time I forget something. You made the madness clear. my favorite line: The loss of his love, through the loss of his mind. 
    LikeReply 11 month ago
    • blake.edward.mccool
      we've all got devils that like to whisper little sins to us. So always know you're not alone. The fact that you're 72 proves you are strong, and that even the devil himself couldn't stop you from being the amazing person you are! I've got another piece called "the discoverers good by kiss" you might also like!! Thanks for caring, and thanks for sharing your time with me! 
      LikeReply29 days ago
  • Vixility
    The language in this poem is pretty impressive. Based on some of the content, my guess is you are probably a fan of Friedrich Nietzsche—and if not Nietzsche, some of the other existentialists.
    LikeReply 11 month ago
    • blake.edward.mccool
      that's exactly right, it's sort of a retort to some schools of existentialism. In that, where the argument that life is ultimately meaningless. The fact that we have a life at all is indicative of purpose. It's a self fulfilling prophecy. Because the purpose of life, is to find purpose in life. No matter how large or small you live it, the fact you have it and it ment something to you. Means you won the game. it means you gave "meaninglessness" meaning. That when you return to the abyss, you can go with your head held high. Knowing you're returning NOT empty handed. holding proof of you're own meaning, through the purpose you've created for yourself. 
      LikeReply1 month ago
  • JdeLorenzo08
    Nice work I really enjoyed reading your work! I'm new here look forward to reading more!
    LikeReply 11 month ago
    • blake.edward.mccool
      JdeLorenzo08 thank you so much! I've been writing for a long time and I'm slowly trying to build the courage to put my work out there. So this means the world to me!!! Everyone here's really great and we're glad to have you here! 
      LikeReply1 month ago

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"Ballad of the dead mind poet" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 17 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/187749/ballad-of-the-dead-mind-poet>.

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