Do poets go to the meadows of Asphodel?

After William Carlos Williams.

It seems that some,
for lack of living,
prefer to contemplate
death

Love decomposed.
Rotting in a muddy, half-open coffin,
signed with pretty letters.

I hold up a sheet of white paper
and see a mirage of flowers
merging into each other
like the colors
of a kaleidoscope–
each hinting
at a different
afterlife.

The whole world
and what lies beyond it
becomes a garden
of roses, asphodels, and sunflowers–
these are the remains of some of these days.

A poet’s passing breath
summons mountains
in those arcane skies–
Or every quaint image
can be a massacre,
a murder of years.
A lover’s face forced
to stay young
to drops of tears.

For others, poetry is but a mere asphodel
Wilting against the fire
In one man’s life.
Maybe just once,
If you see the flower in the right light
you can catch a glimpse
of all the color it forgets.

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