You were the poet who invented Jesus,
But by another name, he’s still a God.
The swan that crashed as flying ceases
From out its tomb when it became too hot. 4
But was this poetry too pure to heal
As Non Usitata is ironic
To fly and sing in vain with mocking zeal,
Where poetry attempts to be iconic? 8
The saviour, just before he lives, must die
To drink and wash our ignorance away
And so attempts to raise the soul to fly,
But is hindered by the fools who want to stay. 12
So Horace, as the dreamer, must not die
To raise our feelings up towards the sky.
© Joe Lake
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