In twisted, spastic rigor

He died,

Riding the horse that no one rides,

His face a blue fury

Of airless curses,

His helpless hands bent helpless

At his sides.

The why of this was therefore plain:

Some deep dissatisfaction in his brain

With the vision of his being.

And because he could not see,

He could not be.

    

He died

In spastic, twisted rigor,

Astride the horse that no one rides,

And the blue fury

Of his curses,

The white stare of madness

In his eyes

Cried of a God dead

Before he was born,

Of friends never known,

Of love never green,

Of hope never grown,

Of shapes never seen:

          

And because he could not see,

He could not be.