Dead poem, dead man

I’m frozen inside

Glassy eyes gazing into nothingness

No words to utter

Or ears to hearken to a nightingale on the tree nearby

Nothing has been left

No beautiful lines to say

Neither sorrow nor joy to feel

No words to rhyme

E’en this poem does not issue from my soul

But from the wine by the lamp

Which speaks for me now

Fragrant purple wine

Poured into the blackness

Of my blue eyes

To form a less dusky landscape

Where the sun may still shine