Day 31/366

The Poet
The poet, unknown to thy self,
Awoke in his home today.
After many a night with eyes shut,
Where he did roam the dark woods.

The attire reeking of rosemary,
They covered his back, day and night,
The cuts were deep and gory,
The blood in his veins ran still.

The silence of her memory
Haunted this poet, once quite great,
Out to explore the unseen lands,
He walked with no money, no grains.

When the charcoal would finally dry,
No longer worthy of use.
His words would then stop flowing,
The world, no longer his muse.

While the sunset would see your grave,
Alit as the loud winds moaned,
My dear, I'd keep you alive.
My breath for your pain endeared.