At the desk
Buried deep
Where silence roams
With cobwebbed feet
The settled dust
Dead eyes stare
Downward to paper
Ink to spare.
Locked hand holds
A scratching quill
First paragraph
Meant to chill
The reader caught
In minds eye
Within this chamber
Poetry to sigh.
Six foot above
The cold ground feels
A thousand verses
Death it seals
As below
The words are scrawled
From nib to paper
In repeated call.