35.

Palabras de Sangre


He’s just a lonely poet at heart
And his heart lies on the page
The words flow from his pen as blood
His wholesome being in every one

A never-ending stream of words
Floods out from his mind
For a thousand years, his red tears
Have scorched the frail white sheets

But now he’s bled his body dry
No more tears- he no longer cries
No longer cries in salty words
No longer screams in bitter verse

Nothing left to write about
Nothing to distract his mind
Alone he cried
Alone he dies