The Ballad of the Poet

*The Dead Poet* Many blocks along the road, Kicking down walls of heavy stones, Yet no one could draw through the walls of her lonely bones. A poet who could not write what's inside. Her pen had gone ink dry. Her beady eyes lost the feel of an angelic realm. She tried! She tried until she could no longer cry! A poet who stuttered with the mind and out came no words. This poet hangs on a mound with a picture that tells a sad tale. A poem that broke verses in a Carpe diem dream. She ruffled her arms once more as if she could fly. Still nothing, Everything felt dead inside. Trap in a mental state that clots the willing vein. Isolating her form in a room with no door. She stays this away from the feel of the marvel pen. To never go back, and feel again. In the most ominous way, She lets out a cry, A cry, never heard before. Running from this evil, that stain her world. Words buried deep and behind a new exterior box, Her insides grasp all the air of air once alive. A talon drop into the next, This troublesome poet gave up on everything. Had nothing left, but the empty space within. Next! She curls herself into a fetal world. At last, she closes her eyes, to feel no more. A poet who died the day, joy wiped the glee from her face. by;PD