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A Bard's Death
"Fragments"
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What hurts the most when ink's run dry, when words fail to cooperate
Is that forgotten peace of mind; the sound of silence contemplates
Her ugly head, that Muse (or was), she fails to see the spark in me
And moves my hand to coarser words, a pyre half-built on blasphemy
That bard, he wants, and listens still to hear that voice so near
That by my hands, these wretched hands, I write his life to tragedy.

Oh, poet, true: your words, they move the hearts of men foreign to you
And lift their spirits to new heights unspeakably so beautiful
Your hand is gold when wreathed in inks, no matter black and stained and
crude
The layman stops to hear your words and faints away to interludes
For poesy, that hungry gift, brings life and light to what we love
It stirs the waters 'neath the soul and parts the clouds for light above
It soothes the aches of broken hearts, confesses others true to be
And opens eyes inside the hearts of those not made to learn to see
That life is wondrous, life is fair, a mistress you'll be pressed to
find
That sacred conduit burning forth passage between the heart and mind

But poet, mind that burning fire what bellows in your soul today
For it will be your end, your death, when words cease flowing forth so
free
For without vent, consume it will, and eat its trustee hot with flame
So kiss your muse today and beg she doesn't part from you the same
As mine from me, so long ago, that splendor in my sight so dimmed,
That bard, so like you, lost his soul as his gift uncreated him.

Oh in the end, our words live on, inspiring those who call us back
And pause, they do, to wonder why our gods'-gift spark faded to black.



Penned by my hand on the 20th of Scarlatan, in the year 454 AF.