Death of a poet

It is the death of a poet
That fluent voice the fills
By texture of paper
Swirl of pen
The empty verses
That suffocates the dream.

It is the death of a poet
That fades upon a horizon
Into the vast empty sea
Where once letters twined
Drilled and hummed
Their magic in mid air.

It is the death of a poet
That festers nothing more
Than yawns and tapping fingers
Nothing retained, seldom witnessed
And for all the effort
Nothing from it brings.

©Alisdaire O'Caoimph