My past bleeds history
Inky, black blood drips off
A knife of memories
That liquid slowly morphing,
Working its way into the present and future
Will my life bleed through
The minds of the world and stain?
Will it get on people's clothes and
Under their skin?
Or will it come out after one wash?
My story is scratched in the sky,
Scribbled by the stars
But will anyone care to read it?
I write, but for what purpose?
After hundreds of years, no one will remember
My name
And my poems will burn
As soon as my heart stops
Their ashes will litter my grave-
Scraps of words and phrases, that were written,
But not etched into history books
Because, like myself,
My poems are mortal