the death of a poet

a pen and a paper
were her flesh and her soul
the ink ran as blood through tales that sold
the flowing river that turned into gold
the crowd that warmed as her words were sold
but no one knew why her mind shivered in the cold

a pen and a paper
were her flesh and her soul
but no one knew why her eyes turned old
the life torn out with money and fame
the words themselves no longer the same
the poet herself losing sight ...
difficult it became to wright
bringing her mind out of day into night

a pen and a paper
were her flesh and her soul
the baren poet now deceased in her core