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.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: January 16th, 2026 03:26
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 60
- Users favorite of this poem: Lorenz, arqios, RSM0812, lilly OvO
Offline)
Comments6
Good write N. Been to that Co-op lately?! lol.
COST CUTTERS YOU MEAN, THE PRICES TO HIGH LOL
Lol.
The last two lines gave me the image of poetic words remaining like bones where bodies were burned by lime. Well written
much appreciated, thanks
You are very welcome
No comment just fave !
most kind much appreciated and thanks
This has outlined a portion of this poet's heart. 🙏🕊️
so kind, thanks and much appreciated
This is remarkably written with curved rhymes written elegantly and with solemn care. One of my favs fir a while.
very much appreciated and many thanks my friend
a good write..enjoyed it
as always much appreciated thanks for reading
you are most welcome
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