Born unknown,
died in a line.
The record is cold,
but the words are mine.
Infobox frame,
sidebar fate,
“Poet, creator—
Years too late.”
Bullet points rattle,
works in a row,
Hunter and Hunted—
still on the go.
Downpour drips,
Perhaps confides,
each one a map
where the silence hides.
Future unfinished,
program erased,
4-0-4 echo
in a ghosted space.
They tag my cats,
my Portland flight,
my lover abroad
in the sleepless night.
Systemic erosion,
philosophy’s bend,
freedom by water,
stone at the end.
But listen—
the archive won’t catch my breath.
It flattens the pulse,
but it misses the depth.
I live in the margins,
the breaks, the rhyme,
revising myself,
line after line.
The words I write
Save you time
More wrong then right
And now they rhyme
Stay in school
Stay off drugs
Writing’s cool
Avoid the thugs
But carve it deep:
no lesson’s true.
The page deletes,
and so will you.
Ink on the skin,
then paper burns.
Each breath a draft
that never returns.
Laugh at the motto,
recite the creed,
the archive swallows
what no one reads.
The headline fades,
the sidebar lies,
a poet dies
and no one cries.
Obit in draft,
a ghost in rhyme,
born unknown,
erased in time.
Here lies what was never spoken,
the half-light between the words.
It lived in margins,
in the hush after laughter,
in the silence where a gesture
outweighed a phrase.
Born of hesitation,
raised on glances,
subtext thrived in the footnotes—
always italic,
always unsure.
It died today,
flattened by bullet points,
archived by algorithms
who never learned to wink.
The cause of death:
clarity.
The murderer:
explanation.
Mourners recall
its sly vitality,
its lean grace,
its habit of smuggling
a second heart
beneath the first.
No grave marker needed—
the ghost of subtext
still lingers,
but only in rooms
where people leave pauses
long enough
to hear it breathe.
