fallen writer

"You’re dead"

the stranger whispered

from across

the room

His voice was

soft

and yet

so loud

It was dark

and yet he was in

plain sight

but there was no

light emitting

from anywhere

His clothes

were black

but they didn’t

blend

 

"Who are you?"

I muttered in a

sleepy daze

as if I had just

awakened

when I knew

I had been awake

the entire

time

If I had

than it would be

in my death bed

or that was what

I remembered

last

I could not

have died

not so

fast.

I hadn’t even

tasted the fruits

of my

work

My work was

not yet finished

or at least

in publication

Like so many

writer’s

before me

my work would

not flourish

till after

my time

Like Poe,

like Twain,

who like many

before

would be millionaires

today

 

But they all died

for the most part

with a

bang

but I went out

with out

a single

spark

I can only

hope that

my life’s work

will make

my children

proud

This man of death

stretched out

his arm

only bones

and for a split

second

I fought him

but then realized

that only

Dickinson

could out run

death

and she

had a caraige

Reviews

[Enigma]

Wow!! That was really good...
It's unflods like a story and gives an insight as to what happenes to those whose writings are good enough to bring a revolution in the society. They're ripped from their freedom to express their thoughts. The writer inside them is brutally murdered.
I loved this piece. Very interesting!!!
FANTASTIC WRITE!!!

[Sarah Hale]

0-o .... ...... ...... COOL!

[Sarah Hale]

hmmmmmmm... interesting