So slowly now
As death engages
My poetry before
So many faces
Each a critic
Each a crime
For poets die
In povertys lime.
An open grave
The lime it burns
Each tortured soul
Who waits his turn
Hungry fingers
That held a pen
Paper and ink
So much sin.
The voices call
From far beyond
Hearts emtombed
Its wicked tongues
The midnight bell
Is chiming slow
Poets die
But words they show.