unlock all futures
Death is my final poem,
I will write 
Till the ink runs out,
I will write 
The wordless eulogy:
Of days of night,
Of the raven’s flight,
Of the nomad, 
The no-man – spoiled. 

Death is my final poem,
I will croon 
If only I could
Exclude tribulations,
As tributes
Like a springless river 
Or a fountain 
Of youthful dreams –
     run dry. 

Death is my final poem,
I will mourn 
The empty parchments,
I will mourn 
Their absence,
I will mourn 
In silent – contemplation. 

Death is my final poem.
The dawning of the frozen
Time; the unticking clock
Of awakening;
The primary cycle
Interrupted. 

Hark! He knocks.

Death is my final poem. 
Unwritten by hands
Shaking; by eyes 
Weakened and the grey
Tears of a heaven. 

Hark! Again the pounding. 

Death is my final poem. 
Distractions of deluded 
Grandeur sail above 
Innocent clouds. 

Hark! Hark!

Death is my final poem. 
Dissonance of unread Mail; 
Drawers of dull knives filled. 

Hark?

Death is the final poem
I will write

… as I unlock all futures …