i saw a film done
by one
Jean Cocteau,

called
"Blood of a Poet";
a surreal riseau

into which were woven
phrases of woe
and the pain
artists all know
who can't quite go
insane.

montage of a
journey
within, to the core

of the soul; - all
the chambers and scenes
to explore.

each camera angle
a metaphor,
framed;
each image - absurd,
with few words
to explain.

and in the end
after the
poet had bled

alone on  the stage,
with his verses
all read,

the suicide could've been
mine!
as it was,
undaunted,
the audience
offered applause.