The tragic poet cannot write his history in the hillside.
Still desperate, fingers claw the ground.
The fragile poet learns how night will lose it's memory
of veins exposed in moonlight
when the sleep is washed from it's eyes.

The tragic poet cuts himself wide open,
flaunts vulnerability for a moment,
and cries.
"Tell me you don't hear the swan."

The tragic poet writes himself in the past tense
with both hands on heart.
He does not feel himself move.

Fearing himself forgotten.

"Oh prints in wet sand, stay a while.
The clock fell from the wall,
or was it taken down?
Tonight I'm not so certain."

Fragile poet holding letters still intact,
a brittle poetry of self,
a brittle poetry of... ?
And he cut himself so deep,
bleed himself so clear.
All the children grew up too soon
and saw right through him.
Fearing
himself
forgotten.

"Tell me you don't hear the swan,
hear her sing, hear the drum fade.
This charlatan throws a ribbon of verse
against a starless night sky
and watches the prints fade
from each moment

forgotten."