Who does not die? Who does?
At the hands of time's immunity.
I stand a witness to the sands,
Till when the black turns grey...
I walk on when asked to stay
Aloft, afloat the mirror of silence,
Reflecting the sins of the poet.
To say that which is true,
Is but a gloomy curse to some.
A chord dischordant in my ears
Echoes on, resonating with you,
And your pain. Silent as ever
The poet passes over again.
No marks left by his feet,
Just some marks of ink and blood.