The Writer Dies an Early Death
Not any creature great or small
Has quite the reach
of the writer’s scrawl
Not roaring lions
Not eagle’s caw
The writer wields his pen
or she plucks her keys
and with those words
brings the world
to its knees.
But what of the void
when he or she
leaves too soon?
The paper is empty
and the screen is blank
The pens unused
No scribes left
to form the words
Still, the mourner
stands dumb
mired in mud
with the rest of the world
rushing by
and church bells hang silent
unrung
Such an unearthly and silent pall
That fell
When the writer ceases
his story to tell.
So all you mere mortals at a loss for words
Those who tremble not
at majestic sights
Nor daily struggle
to sleep the night
Observe her work,
Your writer is dead
The demons for once
quieted
in her tortured head.
What you fail to know
Perhaps never understood
is that death occurred a million times
before it occurred.
Take solace then
In the soul you knew
and let your writer go
For though they left you today
His song is already alight
and his words already
flew.
For every word
he or she ever wrote
is a lasting visage
she drew
An internal mirror
of the deepest note
a finest sculpture
of his love
he painted
for you.
You were worth it
Dear one.
Every breath
Every moment
So let your writer go
upon this early death
