Cocteau

Jean Cocteau,
your life was a canvass,
a tapestry of hanging threads,
a poem whose spirit infected
the blood of poets,
an artist of mirrors
wandering the outer wastes of hell,
sifting through urban debris in
pursuit of modern myth.

Cocteau, were you Cegeste?
Or Cagliostro?

In your surreal villa
conjuring a testament,
a celluloid limbo
where Orpheus wept,
then became Jean Cocteau.