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.