a poet cannot just die in his sleep or of old age
those are deaths best left to the unimaginative
a poet instead will find his end with the
tragic with the lost
with those who wish to die air
a flair for the dramatic
drowning in a pool of thought
or facing fears at the end of a barrel
or writing with a shard of mirror, reflection of my heart
stories that never heal
on a permanent canvas
an indefinite reminder
woven through ]out a web of veins, vines twisting with life