The Death Of A Poet.

[EpItApH]

Many days, umpteen drinks…
Reviving chapters with every blink.
Futile whips of the favorite pen,
At success some stories even link.

The poet’s mind may grow old,
Sporadically bold, currently cold.
Encrypting words in hearts and souls,
Yet so many more to be unfold.

A poet’s corner one may seek,
A lonely chair in a small café across the street;
With ashes building collective stairs,
And tea stains with no room to spare.

Many vespers; abundant dreams;
Manifold conversions, as it seems.
Too jaded now to even think,
To even use my crony ink.

Marred hand; crinkled skin,
Scattered pieces of last efforts; blending in.
Need some rest, so I can write again.
Rest in peace, to another land…

[Isagel]

I really liked this part:
"With ashes building collective stairs"
it makes ashes seem beautiful.

[EpItApH]

haha! ashes are beautiful!
Especially if your a smoker ;)

[Pensive]

Ep, this is really lovely. I liked this line very much:

A poet’s corner one may seek,
A lonely chair in a small café across the street;
With ashes building collective stairs,
And tea stains with no room to spare.

[EpItApH]

Thank you pensive.
Glad you liked it. :)