Writing
In the hour of the after life
As the candle burns
Fingers are numb
Ink is dry
A feathered pen ruined
On ashless paper
Exposing uncombined thoughts
Of revision
How can this be?
The words I look upon
Carefully
A sentence so unfinished
Quenching for more expressions
In which I cannot find
A performance in the house of tongues
From an encore of a lapping lexis
As the dead poet rise
To be saved