the poet is dead.
Died a silent death
when
you and I were writing prose
by the shores of the windy sea.
The sand,
picked on us
the poet,
by the rocks.
We scribbled, drew paragraphs plenty
the poet etched,
one
word
at
a
time
II
In the high tide,
we swam with the waves
hit the rocks
held on to them
when we were pulled away.
The poet
swam in deep sea;
never came back for tea.
III
Father,
why does my castle not stay?
Son,
its made of sand and clay.
Father
what does, this rock say
Son, it says
One
word
at
a
time
Life
does
not
always
rhyme.
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