Words of A Dead Poet

My hourglass is stinted in paradox time, 
frozen in blank space pouring rhymes, 
I do not wish for sand through the vial, 
but I have no direction living in denial. 

Peace is a fortune not in my cookie, 
the paper only reads my hopeless destiny, 
I took a chance but still can't swim, 
this island of depression turned me grim. 

To all the loves I've loved in my life, 
my children, my possession most prized, 
ages ago I read Catcher in the Rye, 
a present-day Poe consumes my mind. 

Emily felt a funeral in her brain, 
I know better than anyone of going insane, 
for my mind to die before my age, 
I just keep writing and turn the page. 

A raven on my fence lingers my eye, 
is it Poe here to tell me hi? 
I scribble faster to show him rhymes, 
but even he disappears before I sigh. 

An old soul stuck in present time, 
misunderstood beyond a grasp, 
my only friends that comprehend 
are acknowledged by words of their past. 

What is a poet but letters ignored
until death catches up to me? 
My stories, when they are finally read,
let my soul rest in incoherent peace.