Poets die…

Poets die.


They are betrayed,

Destroyed in love.


Unremarkable, they’re

To sane.

Lost in never-ending

Thoughts, again.

So, we die;

Poets die.



To the world, we’re;

Makes no difference

If we die;

When poets die.


Quill pen bleeds

On shabby sheets.

Arduous life writhed

In a poetry.


Struggling fingers,

Untold words,

Wounded heart,

Never understood.


Poets die





We die;

Alas! Poets die.


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