The Dead Writer

The dead writer.

The Dead Writer 

They found him— 

When they found him, he was cold and dead. 

In his waste, a sight to hollow the strongest heart: 

The maroon robe wrapped tight like a final embrace, 

His gaping eyes fixed in a stare, 

Surprise carved deep into his face, 

As if startled by the silence that had come for him. 

The air in the room was still, 

thick with the scent of old ink and solitude. 

By his side lay the notebook— 

its pages marked by the rough script 

of a restless mind; 

Scratched-out lines, unfinished verses, 

worlds half-formed, characters left frozen, 

dreams paused mid-flight. 

He had died fighting— 

not with a scream, 

but in the quiet desperation of a man 

at war with time, with deadline, with urgency 

trying to wrestle another story 

from the grip of the void. 

His room was sparse, 

a battlefield stripped of all but the essentials: 

a battered desk, a cracked window, 

a chair that creaked like his weary bones. 

And always, the notebook, 

the testament of a life devoted 

to writing the shape and form of existence. 

When news of his death broke, 

they did not speak his name— 

they, struggled to remember it, they did not know it. 

Instead, they murmured his story titles, 

recited his poem verses, 

his lines etched in the hearts of strangers. 

He had given himself to the story, 

becoming a thread woven into humanity’s fabric. 

He wrote of dreams and wonders, 

of imaginations stretching the stars, 

of the simple beauty of existence. 

He spoke for life— 

its chaos, its sorrow, its joy 

while neglecting himself, his joys, his hobbies, 

offering his life as a sacrifice to the story. 

At the window where he once sat, 

the skies still seemed to hold his gaze. 

It was here he whistled softly, 

pausing only to dip his pen in ink, 

shaping lives on paper 

as his own life unraveled. 

And now he is gone— 

some stories unfinished, some themes unspoken, 

some characters frozen in space 

Yet, the story remains, 

alive in the hearts of those who remember, 

a flame that refuses to dim. 

He had vanished into the quiet, 

leaving only the weight of ink 

pressed into pages that still whisper 

to those who dare to listen. 

No monument will bear his name, 

And no, he would never care, 

no echo will call it aloud. 

Yet in the spaces between the words, 

in the breaths held by those who read, 

he lingers— 

a shadow, a whisper, a thread. 

The stories he bled for 

will carry the light, 

flowing onward, 

Unbroken. 

EzroniX Poetry