Poet’s Exile

A ruinous filth spills onto the page Like sap from a trees rotting heart Hands covered in black The speaker of my memories Smooth and razor thin An emissary of ink I envy the pen and it’s melan-written spiels Armored with a voiceless vignette It is its only way to prove that it’s master is alive Feverishly pushing its point to a fading death Is this the fate of all who pick up a pen, or am I the unlucky who withers among the living Buried and fossilized beneath a healthy pink tongue Are my words not memorable ? Will my efforts be admired? Have I not earned a meaningful epilogue?