it has been said of me
that i shall be buried with a pencil
lodged firmly in my
cold, dead grips.
perhaps this pencil could be
my undoing itself.
it could be a quill
and my heart, an inkwell.
i could be my own undoing.
i could say the words that strike me dead.
i could tell you i'm fine now
but, i would have lied.
and my inkwell, it's run dry.

02/15/2003

Posted on 02/16/2003
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams