A Poet is Dead

A Poet is Dead

A poet is dead,
he had it coming.
He just wouldn't listen.
No time to ponder life
nor see the splendor all around,
instead, he chose to retreat
behind unopened eyes.

Now he lies sprawled
across his desk,
face planted firmly
on a blank sheet of paper,
dull, wooden sticks jabbed into his eyes—
yellow, number twos.

A bloody tongue
hangs by threads
from his gaping mouth;
a striking contrast
to waxy white skin.

Silently, he bleeds unwritten words
from a decayed mind, pried open and freed.

No...
turning his back on this jilted muse
was not a healthy choice.
A poet is dead,
he had it coming.