The Poet

The Poet

Epilogue…
Parchment paper and quill,
Ink-stained hands clutching his promiscuous weapon,
Spoiling yellowed paper with black liquid as his hand moves across the page,
Tears of guilt and shame lay heavy on his cheeks,
Symphonic tones from the background drown out his weeping,
How can one feel alive in this world?
He writes.
Art, music, and speeches help us to create,
But do they help drive us to innovate?
Crisp edges of parchment rip as the poet shifts into a more comfortable position,
Subconscious poetry and rhythms spilled like blood from his fingertips,
He recites,
Praying to the heavens that he’s doing…trying….to be alright,
The ink blots as he finishes his sentence line,
All or nothing does he leave behind?
The words have been recorded, the message received,
He has spent many hours underneath Vienna’s eaves.
One life passionately written and stretched across a single sheet of cloth,
Should he be proud or ashamed?
It is the empty paper in front of him to be blamed.

       END.