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Poem	once i wrote with the irreverence of youth and the fire of a heart burning to ash i plucked words like faggots from blazing coal and on the anvil of exile i hammered sorrow into verse the burden of your suffering tore poetry from my flesh and on the night of your hanging there was dust in my lines i aimed for song and there was not an eye without tears i marked the fourteen stations of the cross but your death has killed my verse each day i wake on the hour to mourn and i feel like a wanderer in a city without lights passion flees in the fog and words crumble at my touch and my throat feels like a concrete floor the power of tears has deserted me i walk through the streets of this forbidding town searching for faces i used to know and your memory is like a faded picture in the pocket here and there i hear your name like the distant crack of a whip and there is a dull pain where the scars remain i recall your stubbornness and the ring of blood on your wrist and i embrace this cold that severed you from me once i howled with the rage of a bard there was epiphany in the pain and all because i loved you now i claw the walls for the naked word my lines are a hollow sepulchre ready for the final dust silence claims us at last
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