Death of the poet

Here lies a lonely mountain,
Once proud with a man at the top as he wrote of the mountain’s wisdom
All so proud and fabulous this mountain was
But no one else came to partake of this mountain
For none knew that mountain
None had seen the roots by which the mountain was earthed
None had shared in its depths and secrets that it has treasured up
Even so the man atop hadn’t known of these things
The man was known as a poet, but only to himself as it may
He knew of kings, queens, knights, and other nobles
He knew them all for their mighty deeds and riches
But only by writ he knew of the esteemed
Knowing nothing of the love or the joy… that was of such character
Just by words, he knew them all
Just by pages, he knew them all
Thus the poet came to wisdom
Somewhere there is the tree that marks the poet’s grave
That was planted centered to the once beating heart of his
As if to say that his heart still beats on
To the earth it is ever tethered to
To the air it is ever obedient to
There is no longer a poet, but a poem
Of the untouched mountain
And of books long forgotten
Then lastly the scarred tree
Where is the poet in any of these?
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