The death of a poet's imagination occurs when he begins to percieve himself a poet.
He stands in a vacant field with one thought in his head: They think I'm a poet..so...how do I keep up the illusion? and what the fuck does a poet do, exactly?
Look, we don't believe in falsehoods.
The moment of clarity carries waves of truths and oceans of pain.
There is nothing more that needs to be said.