When the ink finally dries,

I come crashing from the sky,

The cold will come crawling back,

And my skeleton will begin to crack.

The dark is never quite dead,

It always hangs on by a thread,

Hovering just over me at night,

Kept out by my flickering candlelight.

Poets never die, forever immortalized,

But sometimes I fear for my life,

Every word drowns in a thousand others,

Every line is strangled by a few lovers.

I let the flowers bloom a thousand times,

Arranged in vases of flowery rhymes,

But the petals will wilt a thousand times more,

Wondering what they ever unraveled for.

Poets never die except by their own hands,

Knives of their creation are the deadliest weapon.

When the ink no longer bleeds on the other side,

When the dark returns is when the poet dies.