For you he never existed,
For him--he lived in his scripts,
For you--his mind was too twisted.
Protest never came from his lips.
Once, he couldn't go on, he had to give up,
And when he did that there was noone to stop.
Noone to bury, noone to cry.
River--his bed forever to lie.
No sorrow everyone forgot.
Someday to be remembered--late;
And published. Scripts now all we got,
Passes unknown. That's what I hate.
And others'll be born to follow his way
Till the sunsets will follow sunrises...
To a Dead Poet II
© Copyright: Evvie Rough, 2002
Свидетельство о публикации №102030800306
Свидетельство о публикации №102030800306
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