It’s when the lyrics of life disappear,
hands of time slow more each year –
our pulsing heart pauses, then dies
as ink in our pen, fades and dries.
Pens without ink, solitude bestow –
gone to a place where words forego.
Poets without ink, can’t write as deep
hushing them ever, in wordless sleep.
May our verses remain immortal will –
so perhaps, somehow, we linger still.
© Literary Remains