LETTERS OF DEATH

The ghost is designed to scare

The hell out of me

Yet I have no hell in me

Though I scream

In terror

For the dead artist

Mourned at the shrine

In singled tears or water

Falling off our faces.

Someone must fail

For lesser to succeed

Where others trail.

Pain does not allow dreams

And voice chords tear in a scream.

I remember the dead artist

And what he must have endured

      - The pain

All he had been misunderstood

      - As mad

For him to only sing of the soul

And an empty life

And now this

      - Death.