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.
-
Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: January 16th, 2026 03:26
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
Good write N. Been to that Co-op lately?! lol.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.