A poet dies

Sometimes a poet dies
inside.
sudden.
singed in flames
that don’t burn
nor die .

And loses a quiet burial
into the heart of words.
No twilight sings in him
the glory of rebel evenings,
as the dark night sets sail.

The poet shall never see the siesta
of wrinkled suns inside his quiet eyes.

As the book of unattainings recedes
through his clenched hands like
a serpent desert, erasing him.