“A nail in the coffin, such a significant mark.”
Said the dead man walking,
with a hole in his heart.
But the nail was his weapon,
his sword, his pen.
Sheathed within his own body,
his life, his friend.
So day after day, as stress grew,
as life came.
He welled up all the words,
which sang.
All of this, blood, sweat and tears.
Until the fool realized all his lost years.
He yearned to draw the blade once more,
and so did it pour,
all the words and shame
he had to his name.
So the ink flowed, his life blood,
his prose.
Always to write again, his blooming
red rose.
