The Death Of A Poet..

A poem stems from a bleeding wound,

Or a timeless song of love, for the beloved,

The pen fell from the frail hands,

As the poet wrote on a torn parchment.

While men scurried home,

To avoid the cold North wind,

And the land lay covered in a white shroud,

In a tiny hovel, lay a poet,

Waiting for his end, hunger and loneliness,

His friends for long.

The people of the city,

With eyes blinded by coins,

Heeded not the gifted awakened words,

Of the poet, who saw beyond the unseen,

But still, he continued, till his body could sustain no more,

And in deep winter, he lay alone in a hut,

Looking through the roof, at the sky,

For the release from the chains of life.

"Oh Lord, you sent me to spread the words,

Of angels and enlightenment,

But outcast and in oblivion, I lie.

Oh Death, free me from the shackles of life,

For weary am I of dragging them,

Tarry not, oh Death, for no language of love,

They understand, and left me alone,

For I bleed not the weak as they do.

Embrace me in your arms,

For never have I felt the warmth of a mother's touch, on my forehead,

Nor the gentle kiss of a sweetheart,

Come and release me, Oh Death."

And an angel, with celestial lights around her,

Embraced and closed his eyes gently,

So he could see through her spirits.

The hovel then became empty and forlorn,

With pages of papers strewn in futility,

Hundreds of years later,

When people awoke from the slumber of ignorance,

To the dawn of knowledge,

They erected a monument in the name,

Of the lonely and unknown poet,

Whose writings had freed them,

And celebrated every year his birth,

Such is man's cruelty and hypocrisy,

When a poet's death became his life.