On Living Poem by Lydia Thacker

Beneath the surface of death, the aged poet wanders,
her pen scratching in time with the dusty clock in the hall.

Writing life which she has neglected to live,
trying to define the colors with which she labels the world.

Unheeded, her personal darkness descends,
deepening creases, already evident, in her brow.

The pen falls to the floor with an almost imperceptible click,
unheeded as the world she leaves behind.