As shadows climb and mingle with the light,
The dying poet reaches for his pen,
To catch the fleeting image of the night
And phrase a moment's beauty once again.
Some deem the poet's gift to be a curse,
An endless quest and lines of written woe;
Yet method’s 'neath the madness of his verse,
Reflections leave his mind with much to know.
And he'll not fear the darkness as it nears;
For he's been dying long before his death.
The ink that trails behind to mark his years,
Will spill his soul until that final breath.
With but a whisper left for him to give,
The dying poet leaves his words to live.
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