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the poet who speaks of death
as if the poet has but a few days
left continues to write throughout
the night by candle light watching
spirits dance inside the flame
at the same time outside the
moon wanes stars shine like
polished silverware on a dinning
room table next to fine china taken
from a maplewood cabinet
then something happens
miraculously the poet gains
more momentous energy
alive suddenly awaken as if
the poet was born again
feeling a surge from within
takes hold of the lonesome
pen digging deep underneath
the skin until the poem cries
like a love song of someone
being left alone in a empty
house waiting by the phone
with few words to come out
if it should ring out at all
who would call the lonely poet
who often morbidly speaks
of death so comforting
