Blood dribbles from the quill, the feather dyed sepia. A poet's tears dampen the paper as he flaps his wings and sings his soul into the snow of the artic blizzard. His voice lights the way for his mind to fly free. His verses warm the fingers that continue to move despite stiffness, to worship words. He was found dead, wearing a t-shirt that said: "You can take my pen, after you pry it from my cold dead fingers."