Death of a writer

Death of a writer

Did you hear about the writer, that they found dead?

He was found in his bed, killed by the things

That he made up in his head.

He wrote of monsters, and creatures of the night,

They found him dead in his bed, on a cold winter’s night.

The coroner said, the cause of death was nothing but freight.

The look of horror on his face was a terrible sight.

He wrote of horror, and fear, and 

Terrible winged creatures in flight.

He died on a full mooned, cloudy night.

The fear of which he wrote crept into his brain,

And ate away at his nerves, like a corrosive acid rain.

He dug into the dark side of his mind,

 And found scary things, of the most horrific kind,

Things better left alone, and UN-touched.

Thoughts of demons, and monsters, and ghosts, and such.

He wrote day, and night, trying to hone his skill,

He could spit out the rhymes, with ease, at will,

But all of the rhymes that came out of his head

Would scare any sane man, and make him think of the dead.

Why didn’t he write of the beauty of life instead?

Instead of images of doom, and dread?

Always writing of things that go bump in the night,

Conjuring images of terror, and freight[RS1] .

Why a man would chose such things in which to delight?

Delving into the macabre all hours of the night.

They say, “He was a good neighbor”, and “Friends, he had many.”

Of all the usual bad habits, he didn’t seem to have any.

May God put a rest to his poor tortured soul?

For he gave in to his imagination, and gave it total control,

And now we stand by his grave, and pray for his soul.

†

R. F. Sorrell

5/21/2014

 [RS1]