there is indeed relief
in the bleeding words
of a cutting edge misery
there is indeed beauty
in a dying poetry
that gets to live another day
there is indeed meaning
in an empty paper:
a brevity poignant testament
there is indeed life
in every ending rhymes,
a killing soundtrack for past demise
melancholic poems
are just as golden as
poems about the sunshine
and poetry is not in those words we write,
but it is in reading back on it
and knowing that we survived