Inkwell resting on it's side.
Blotter crumpled in the basket.
A story imortalized.
While the author rests in casket.

Sunrise.
Oh holy day.
Unlike stories,
Life won't stay.

The door has been left ajar.
Drafts come through the broken windows.
Once again it's gone too far,
This wretched story, sick dog show.

The Sun is setting,
On one more day.
Mortality's getting,
In the way.

Grass is dying, just like him.
The blood is pooling right around,
His lifeless, once wonderous limb.
His blood waters the grassy ground.

The Sun is gone,
Yet again.
A grim reminder,
Of what has been.

Grab the well; end the story.
Finish the beauty he did start.
Write the end to his last magic.
Do him justice, end his art.

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