Death of a writer

 

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When my mortal frame goes to sleep at night, my immortal soul wakes up in a shade of grey.

The dark room beneath the staircase feels like a graveyard, breath still as death, mind wandering alone in a sway.

The characters I created sit in a mourning circle around my grave.

I can see the elder ones consoling the crying younger ones, telling them to be brave.

He’ll come back to life one day, they look skywards and pray.

We all will get our due roles; he’ll write he’ll write all shades, dark blue, yellow and grey.

Writers do die on the trail to freedom, but characters always stay.

Writers do die on the trail to freedom, but characters always stay.

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