Upon a Writer's Death

A pen is silenced
lying still now
on the half-empty page.

It’s a fire
burning through
the library.
Words we never read
before our eyes.

A heart is stilled
while full of love
spilling on
to those around.

It’s a parade
marched through town
an hour before
now confetti
strewn on the ground.

A light is missing
while darkness

It’s the empty ache
cavernously deep
the loss of what
you never had
what might have been.

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