An edge is lost, the drive gone,
Love for a Muse is gone forever,
As the dead poet pens his last word.
Life is no longer an easy game,
Nor is the breath that leaves my lips,
Only a pending expectation of his death!
Short of his goal he knows the truth,
An impossibility that eats at his soul,
When he lifts his pen to write a note.
She is gone and what is left for him,
Another poem that you will not read,
Where he is unsure of the next line.
A man fears his fate and yet in silence,
He will listen for the voice of eternity.
Once he thought he knew what love was,
So he wrote his poems of love for you.
Tonight as the darkness engulfs the night,
He realizes that love was never in his hold.
Still, he sits to pen his last entry in life,
But falls short of even a single thought.
There is no easy way out for him, he sighs,
Then he turns to the wall and begins to cry
“Why has life treated me so? I beseech thee?
Why oh why have you treated me this way?”
In silence he hears no response, no answer,
Only the fear of death calling his name,
And so, the dead poet drops his pen.