Well-Said

A Poem

Don black ties and board the hearse
As my dreadful death draws nigh;
Life ceases when void of verse
And the poet's pen runs dry.

Soul-laden soliloquies
And epics that enchant
Are treasures, rare antiquities
That nothing may supplant.

Having launched every line
In my repertoire of rhyme,
I, lyric-less in limbo, pine
For a poetic pantomime.

A well bereft of ink:
A tomb to which I sink.