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The Modern Prometheus

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

What a fool I was to think you my muse!

Believing any mortal could possess

Such grace – a goddess divine; of virtue

Celestial, and spirit unsuppressed.

I swore by your imagined perfection;

Seeking to prove devotion with sonnets

Forged in the fever of self-delusion –

Earning instead shame I fear infinite.

And, like the modern Prometheus, ‘twas

Inevitable this creation would

Destroy my mind, leaving me to puzzle

O’er that emotion most misunderstood.

   Despite defect, my passion was no lie;

   But, love neglected will wither and die.

Resignation

By Bud Koenemund

A certain freedom comes with surrender
(Interpret this as: giving up; quitting) –
Conceding defeat not to engender
Pity, but to gain peace by admitting
I lack the strength to fight every ghost:
Past, present, and future knit together.
When yielding is less painful than love lost,
I must end devotion to that altar.
The mind acknowledges this submission
Seems childish; the heart no longer cares.
Affection, once golden, has become dun,
And by relenting I escape despair.
   Serenity lies in accepting that
   I’ll die alone…and be eaten by cats.

Suicidal Cure

By Bud Koenemund

My soul was not crushed by a single stone,
Nor drowned in the deluge of one tempest.
But, the weight of years alone has o'erthrown
My mind, and stripped the spirit to its rawest
Nerve. I am a man already dead –
Alive only in this physical form;
Left without rest, and many roads to tread;
Blindly groping for shelter from the storm.
Though I seek not a suicidal cure,
My first thought upon opening my eyes:
It's just another day I must endure,
Before I can finally lie down and die.
   I lack the light to vanquish this darkness,
   And, so must roam the wasteland of madness.

Poets Never Really Die by Suicide

The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
– Ernest Hemingway

Poets never really die by suicide,
The sad victims of self-inflicted harm;
Though it’s often the cause the Times will cite,
In obits written while the body’s still warm;
They do not succumb to mere oven gas,
Single-car “accidents” on long, straight roads,
Exposure, starvation, or shotgun blasts;
Nor to drowning, slit wrists, or overdose;
Sadly, many fall long before they jump,
Or break their necks at the end of a rope;
They die when faith is lost and spirits slump;
When this mortal life leaves them without hope.
The cause of death need not be picked apart,
For poets only die of broken hearts.