Cease fire, O insolent rain
This wretch begs you to stop
For you can pour for hours and hours
He can't spill a single drop.
Cease fire, O quivering leaves
This wreck begs you to stay,
He needs a hand to hold his, before
The storm blows him away.
Cease fire, O reckless pages
The writer can't go on,
His ink now spills in painful gasps
And it won't spill for long.
And thus penned he, his final piece
And held the gun to his head
Oh, he didn't leave the pages blank-
They're bathed in blood instead.
YOU ARE READING
Salt And Ink
Poetry(#1 in Poetry 14th November 2015- 14th December 2015) (5th in What's Hot- Poetry, 20th January 2016) Cover picture- grunge (WeHeartIt) "Prepared thus to close, he raised his knife, Death came later; he was stabbed by life." When my ballpoint buckles...
