Poem by a Dead Man

Poem by a Dead Man

Under his jacket, the faded page soaks in the stale, frigid sweat of his colorless hand.
Happiness gleams in the mask of his eyes, but the rotting behind in his heart and his mind
Are killing him silently; victim of memory, all of his thoughts are a slave to the words of the
Poem by a dead man.

Paper seems so weak a home for a soul, yet the ink is a rock when her feelings are sand.
Etched in eternity, every last letter remembers the yesteryear’s heart that he had,
And now they shall endlessly gnaw at the beautiful wound, which is opened by night and that
Poem by a dead man.