Through the gently blowing air, which lingers like the
breath
Felt in those final moments before death,
These words laid their lives bare; and with the same transitory
tension,
Magic - they pursue, with hopes of apprehension.
Their ink – their lifeblood is distributed lifelessly along
the page,
To be contained for all eternity within this tomb – this papery
cage.
The sheet (filled with symbols inactive) appears to be their
grave…
… Yet, that image is a reactive illusion (to the immortal
path they pave).
The seemingly mundane letters are activated
(Their runic magic is cast and fully generated);
When their encasing is viewed by two - your pair of eyes,
Inertia – proved as lies, as they shed their morbid disguise.
The incantation carries with it, a heavy cost:
As this spell is produced – the poet is reduced,
Until all physical apparitions, are forever - lost.
Until there is no more back, and no more white;
And all poets become, when our days are done –
Is the rhythm of each track, and the message we write.
Composed By: Andrew Drucker
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