Literature
moribund, yet writing
the oldest of clichés, and timeless,
is emotion, and though moribund's the writer
that faces faces contempt has filled,
what hurt has urged your pen to write
what words of grief haved marked your craft,
what air that's not pregnant with its stain?
it matters not - lest to say:
draw inspiration from your misery;
write and write and never stop
until you're deeply satisfied.
the wheels of time will keep on milling,
forgotten will be your enemies.
they weren't meant to stay forever,
enjoyed all that rosy time.
in poems, in books, in notes, you wrote,
in everything that escaped your throat,
your memory will last eternally.
and if it doesn'