The Writer Dies an Early Death

 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