Poets die…

Poets die.

Because:

They are betrayed,

Destroyed in love.

 

Unremarkable, they’re

To sane.

Lost in never-ending

Thoughts, again.

So, we die;

Poets die.

 

Monotonous,

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

Broken,

Desolated,

Unnamed.

 

We die;

Alas! Poets die.

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