ShadowsCool
12-31-2011, 10:58 AM
When the poet has died
He is left staring at his old soul
Scraping what remains of his inspiration
That once flourished like steam from a pot
Ascending his dreams in the upper streams
Allowing him to reach ever higher
In the godly realms of his mind.
But now say! the poet has died.
He is a poet who's dreams have left him
On the cobblestone hill with gaunt men
With just the ashes of his poetic mind
Ready to be buried with the rest of the uninspired
In the closet of his thoughts
No longer the wonder of his time.
He is left staring at his old soul
Scraping what remains of his inspiration
That once flourished like steam from a pot
Ascending his dreams in the upper streams
Allowing him to reach ever higher
In the godly realms of his mind.
But now say! the poet has died.
He is a poet who's dreams have left him
On the cobblestone hill with gaunt men
With just the ashes of his poetic mind
Ready to be buried with the rest of the uninspired
In the closet of his thoughts
No longer the wonder of his time.