under a scarlet-clad moonlit sky
the poet carves his last poem; infused
with sadness and bathed with fear
you could see the swelling tears
in his words as they weep their sorrow
on paper, as his pen feels his fading grip
the steaming passion throbs;
there is alchemy, quivering and dying.

the elegy, the odes, the sonnets, haikus
and rictameters: all enfolded into a single
posture, mourning the death of their master,
singing the hymn of a fallen poet
through similes and metaphors; enclosed
in a nest of sorrow, almost an elegy
but cloaked in rhythm and rhyme; an odd
ode to the prowess of his poetry.

his hand quivers, and the pen falls
and rolls on paper, smeared with sadness
he watches his poetry sinking deep
into an abyss of shame and anguish
and he feels a portion of his heart fading
into nothingness; tears fall into place
he is almost a shadow disguised in human
form as he wails, and renders his soul
a shameless death, but his poetry
hovers over him, carrying his prowess
through multitudes of generations,
singing the hymn of a fallen poet.