The Poet
 

Crumpled sheets blow gently
On the desk
On the desk where he sat for many hours,
Days, weeks on end.
Poet, author, award-winning novelist;
He was a successful man,
Celebrated, documented, author of "today's verse" in the newspaper,
Every library and school in the country owned samples of his work.

Tomorrow he would give a presentation,
A performance
A performance at a royal theatre.
It would be a major event,
For he was a major event.

Live television,
Front page headlines
Front page headlines and cover stories:
"Celebrated Poet To Read To The Queen"
People from all around would gather,
People from afar would gather, to witness
"The Biggest Writer Since Shakespeare!"

But that night, that cold and windy night, an unfortunate demise befell him, as he sat
At his desk
At his desk preparing nervously for the morrow;
Making final adjustments to his running order,
Last-minute changes to his sonnet finale.

A heart attack of untimely proportions,
Premature,
Iniquitous,
Unfair,
He was taken from the world
As an infant is taken from its mother.

And now, crumpled sheets blow gently
On the desk
On the desk where he sat moments before.
A leaf of paper ruffles and is lifted by the breeze
It floats in the air like a delicate feather
Descending gracefully through the air.
It comes to rest on the floor,
On his body,
Where he had fallen from his desk
His face twisted in agony like some grotesque picture
Frozen in time
Motionless.

And tomorrow there would be no performance,
No major event
No major event for the Queen and the nation;
For the limericks and rhymes that once flowed from his lips like music from a choir
Have drawn abruptly to a close.

Bloody noggin, this is great. I seriously encourage you to write more, and soon. I think you love Larkin, even if you deny. You, Larkin and David Brent...like the bermuda triangle but slightly sadder.

:'(

*tears flow freely from the cheeks of Amarth*

good work, thanks for sharing

Thats all you ever say J.R.V.A.