Graft In Time Poem by Madrason .

Standing in the window frame
the curtains wave
the curtains gave
a glimpse of greater fame
but it was to pristine
the sheet was clean
it didn't know
how it would grow
and what it would write about
was very stout
the way he tried
and from the start
the way he died
was like he lived
so very proud
he new it from it's heart
in writers' street
a muse climbed
upon it's feet
i still can hear
from window screen
a tick, a tack
a scream
a type machine
a naked breast
that scorns
the mourning sun
in Old Amsterdam
as if from rhyme
our modern time
stood still
for just this frame
let justice write his name
like stars that call
just as they fall from prime.