Disappearing Ink Poem by Cantrell Bill

Countless poets of noble blood,
tattoos bleed beneath their skin
No point of reference for their worth,
Its not a snake, it's just it's skin

As all endeavors come to a close
with every stone unturned
Of all things penned in the dead of night
from the light where a candle burned

Yes, nature to music, life to death,
inquiry of the greats,
nothing more than slaves in bondage
as the new becomes of late