I hate poetry, you shout to the finite sky, a mute agonized shriek, and who can prophesy that which cannot happen? Or that cannot be spoken? Then you sigh and the gathering clouds make the finitude more emphatic and unbearable.
Then a flash of lightning ends it all. Against the stark heavy sky a lonely tree stands charred. A mere silhouette, an aesthetic oddity, a lost dream. You turn your eyes away as they were always meant to be turned away. Your heart skips a beat and then returns to normal. Away in the horizon it rains in torrents. But you can only feel it in the distance, it may never come at all.
You turn away as you were always meant to. Away from the terrace and the sooty sad figure and the heavy greyness. Into the room you walk alone. Warm with artificial lighting and with wooden countenance you survey the mahogany and teak. They called it comfortable.
Do you call it dead?