Hymn for the Dying Poet

Bullets tearing, biting claws, the words of a preacher, a lash falls. I thrash around, screaming for help, my hair gets caught in the teeth of a kelp. A fireman rushes past me, a bird in his hand. I smell the sugar, I taste bland. And my face is painted by the fingers of the earth, and the sonnets of my infancy reverberate, as the chrinocles of my deeds are being written and the sky of my youth is lit. My mother, my father - all are away, and I unconsciously seek the road to take me astray. My words flow with the lightness of feather, dangling on my lips, smelling of heather. I could pour my soul into this cup, yet who would drink it and not throw up? I'm green inside, blue on the tips of my long lost fingers and my strange, bare lips. Unerringly so, in my place I shall stand, along with the crowd, I'll eat the sand. The water will leave me, the green will fade, my hair will settle, my teeth go gray. Your purple nose will fall off, too, leaving your orange bones to turn into goo.
Does one wonder anymore, why we fear the eyes that prejudice bore? What's coarse and small will not be given attention at all, as that which is incomplete. To be boring and accepted, a beast must find its way into the bush that hides them all.
And, yet, I wonder, when my turn will be to crawl, after the crowd has maimed my pleading call. When my song hears the approach of its death, may it hide within me and feed the red. May you be forever spirit, flowing darkly by the minute. May we be unclear, the mystery, to turn their small lives blissfully.
I release you, with my young powers, from the menacing threat of the aging hours. Fly, sing and speak, become not one of the meek. For in our destiny true tales await - the world has never seen something so great!
So take my hand, and let us jump from this cliff - watch out for that stump - and let us escape the wiff of an elderly land. For only airborne will we be free, with the groping hands of normality far behind you and me...