a hollowed wind rustles paper scraps
blowing ideas along beaten dirt paths
swaying words in vacant coves
moving ink across charcoal roads
syllables blossom over flowering hills
until they finally land on a note next to a bottle of pills
on a deep oak bedside stand
where you can find sleeping remedies clasped in a jittering left hand

and as he fall into darkness to meet his creator
the poet's process is recycled and will be passed along yet again
for his words will travel until they find another suitor
and as a hollow wind picks up in the night
paper scraps are rustled...