#PoetryTakeMeAway

EPITAPH

He killed himself from the fury of passion, or died from laziness. If he lives, it’s thanks to oblivion.

Here’s what he leaves for himself:

-His only regret was not being his own lover.

-He was not born for any purpose; he was always driven by the wind ahead: a mixed platter of leftovers, an adulterated mix of everything.

Of the not knowing - but without knowing where;

of gold - but without a dime;

of nerves - without strength;

vigor without force;

of the impulse - with a twist;

of the soul - and no violin;

of love - but a dreadful stallion.

Too many names, to have just one.

Adventurer of ideals - without an idea;

rich rhyme - and never rhymed;

without having been - upon returning, he found himself lost everywhere.

Poet, in spite of his verses;

artist without art - in reverse;

philosopher - straight and sideways.

A funny serious type - not funny at all;

actor: he didn’t know his part;

painter: he played the bagpipes;

and musician: with the palette.

A head! - but without a head;

too crazy to know how to be stupid;

he took a trait for the word très. - His false verses were the only true ones.

Rare bird - and of trinkets;

very male - and sometimes very female;

capable of everything and good for nothing, he well harvested evil, poorly good.

Prodigal like the son of the Testament - without a testament.

Intrepid: and sometimes, out of fear of the “plat,” he would dip his feet in the dish.

Furious colorist - but pale;

misunderstood - especially by himself;

he cried, sang with perfect discord; and was a flaw without flaws.

He never knew how to be someone, nor something. His naturalness was a pose.

Too naïve, while too cynical;

completely incredulous, while believing in everything. What gave him pleasure was disgust.

Too raw - because he was too cooked,

to nothing less resembling than himself, he amused himself with his own boredom until waking up at night.

Wanderer at sea, adrift, a wreck that never arrives...

Too himself to be able to bear himself, with a dry spirit and a drunken head,

finished but unable to finish, he died awaiting to live and lived awaiting to die.

Here lies, heart without a heart, barren: too successful - like a failure.

Tristan Corbière