THE EPITAPH

He sits with a pen in hand,
the paper as vacant as his mind..
I know this silent poet an era gone by,
I try not think but he distracts my eye..
When is it you laughed stranger,
When is it you felt and cared..
Tell me oh spring! when you heard him last,
That stone cold poet from my wooded past..
He can stand it no more and picks up the knife,
I can feel his slimy blood, his last poem..
As cold metal touches cold skin, I laugh,
He's left me nothing to write but this epitaph..