Death of A Poet

Resigned.
Numb.
Lifeless.

But the heart still throbs.
And the skin still senses
The chill of the night.
But there's something odd
About the touch of the breeze:
I sense it, yet I feel it not.

The music's gone.
The rustle of the leaves,
The overture of the crickets
Over the ocean of silence.
Silence Herself.
Symphony has suddenly lost meaning.

As have colors.
A grayscale life, in a grayscale world.

I am dead, yet I feel it not.

Reviews

[Mockingbird]

this is a beautiful poem. i have writer's block so i can relate to what you're expressing. i like the language and the honesty of it. great job.

[Kaitlyn Raiford]

I love the way that you use your words. Very mature and lovely. You have, no doubt, a great understanding how to make thoughts words, and words a beautiful art.