Free verse № 61932
A Poet's Rifle
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."
4 comments
it's arresting
if your going to gripe, dont make some goddamn worthless comment like that without explaining your bullshit. ok?
arctic has two c's in it. Could have a capital a for Arctic, but does not have to. Cute reworking of the sentiment "I'll give you my guns when you pry them from my cold, dead hands"-
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