And the gory ink dried before our own shaken eyes
You lived in simile and melancholy
Metaphors of agony
You seared your parting lines
With graceful grandeur
Like a revered poet
Holding firm the flaming pen
that wrote your life
Murmurs still linger
Of the unknown poem
You left behind for us
To decipher
To find meaning
Of the light that shone so bright
For us, it blinded itself
And walked itself to oblivion
We still stare in awe
Wondering if these lines continue
For the poem was yet to be written
Now the poet is dead
His ink-less veins shattered
Like a harrowing nightmare
Blazed out of reality
The poet is dead
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