Lermontov, Verlaine, Trakl, Yesenin

A bullet buried deep inside his breast,
Lermontov lay dead, but forever young.
The Paris sun descending in the west,
Verlaine slept with green absinthe on his tongue.

The wounded soldiers in the Polish mud
stalked Trakl to the kingdom in his vein.
His final poem written down in blood,
Yesenin dangled by the window pane.

Four poets lived, then perished by default
by either pistol, bottle, drug or noose.
(It burns to write lines worthy of one’s salt.)

And whether by God’s grace, gift, guile, or ruse,
each climbed Parnassus as in an assault,
and sang with cup and chain until let loose