R.H.B

                              
                                       It does not stand to reason
                                       why beauty is not appreciated
                                       and how the so called "cultured"
                                       can ignore their own foundation....


    As you first appeared, I watched as you cast your fiery eyes
    upon unsuspecting victims.  A moment or two passed before you
    took aim and slung the first stone.  Striking out as David had
    done Goliath.  Yet, unlike the legend, you were the predator and
    they, the prey. I watched as you, the hunter, turned into the
    victim.  The victim of your own environment.  A victim, indeed,
    of yourself as your soul was being torn by your love for the dying
    and your anger for the unloved.   Tears from your eyes flowed as
    blood from a wound.  The wound of poetry that has been gashed out
    of the heart of culture. You struggle for the ones who weep and you
    anger for the ones who refuse to see.  You, as Cupid, sling your
    arrows for the love of the loved - poetry.  A love for which there
    needs no seed.  Just the care of "The Casketmaker".


    Guilt, anger, frustration, fear. 
    What the hell are we doing here? 
    The great empire of poetry fell. 
    Some think maybe it's just as well. 
    Still, many others cannot rest. 
    Why does it happen to things we like best?