Literary Remains

The world must have us
to feel its pain
and write of it –
giving it life with
no lust for fame.

A litany of words
our veins bleed ink
faint concepts of
life, death, love
and the way we think.

Our flesh and bones
will eventually decay
but words stay alive
however allegory…
in some small way.

Hourglass with no sand
immortal for a price
similes, analogies
a sum of all tears
in sleepless sacrifice.

Our world ends when
its metaphor has died
never really belonging
to the paradox of life
but at least we tried.

Tears, ink, blood
things leaving stains
our pathos now spent
bequeathing tendrils
of literary remains.

© Roxi St. Clair

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