The Poet

Epilogue….

Parchment paper and quill,
Ink stained hands clutching his pernicious weapon,
Spoiling the yellowed paper with black liquid as his hand moves across the page,

Tears of guilt and shame lay heavy on his cheeks,
Symphonic tones drown down his weeping,

How can one feel alive in this world?
Art, music, speeches help us to create,

But do they help us to innovate?
Crisp edges of parchment rip while he shifts into a more comfortable position,

Subconscious poetry spilling like blood from his fingertips,
He recites,
Praying to the heavens that he’s doing alright,
The ink blogs as he finishes his sentence line,
All or nothing does he leave behind?
The words have been recorded, the message received,
For he has spent multiple hours under with Vienna’s eaves.

One life passionately written and stretched across a single sheet of cloth,
Should he be proud or ashamed of this?
It is the empty paper in front of him to be blamed.