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The Death of Poets

 
Is it any wonder how writers,  
even so young -  
their faces tight and bright with sun,  
their eyes agleam -  
how yet they still succumb  
to emptiness?  
 
Their faucets dripping dry;  
an empty sky,  
no air; nowhere to run,  
no thoughts to dream?  
 
Then, let the bullets fly.  
Let blades invade the vital stream.  
Let souls depart.  
 
And in ascension seem  
to find their heart
Written by DampKitten
Published | Edited 31st May 2024
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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