poignancy ~ the last poem

green is inevitably misunderstood
when red is malnourished
and seeping into oblivion,
poets are a dying breed,
reluctant vampires
horrified of light,
indecent malcontents
once ripened flesh or
the flesh ripening
over sternum and breast,
visceral artists
cowering near holy water
and the fertile loam 
eroticism bares

who will drain this sea of recollection
when the last morning came?
so beautiful,
so very beautiful
so desolately beautiful
it made us hungry for the night

who will write these words
our muse left scattered
in our dread?

who will write a poem
to cure me of my poignancy,
bone-weary, lusting for life.