Talking to a Dead Poet

Did you ever have those days, smithpeter
when you were so blue the day turned to black
shades of existence coloring your world
in the absence of light.

A bullet would take away this pain
malignant growth lodged tight in heart
that no physician living or dead
can excise

A rope would do the trick
leave the strange fruit, hanging
from a deciduous tree in the fall
choking on words that grasp no air
while leaves shower in the struggle

Better perhaps to walk into that cool green
leave the trees to their proclivities
cartridges in their chambers
search for that great physician
that healed you