The poet had gone insane. Ingesting a chemical substance believed by pundits of religious esoterica to be the forbidden route to God. Discovered near a dead sea were scrolls of his work written under the influence with his senses heightened and deranged, was how they came to be. Found in a vision – picture this – an old woman with a pretty face and a mean laugh standing at the ends of the earth. The oceans all dried-up. No more tears. Lost souls offered to the highest bidders. Worthless gold thrown madly at her out of fear. Bargaining for salvation as others tried to solve times tired equations and overturn the weeded garden into flowers. Again, what was the question, or reason, why this man had scrawled to be heard? Enraptured in fruitless prophesy. Fingers scribbling blood marks into sand script. Was it a curse, this punishment of words? Pronouncements of the unforeseeable to be foreseen as tragically incomprehensible and disbelieved. No need then to heed warnings if truth appeared wrong when right. Alas, for naught was his sacrifice in gaining this powerless insight.