Death of a Poet

The words, blurred, not really clear, just dripped ink, from one line it begins, one line to the end
The birds, stop their chirping, the wind stops its whaling, the whispers, unheard, now the room is silence
My mirrors cracked, the faces are torn, from magazines, from newspapers, just false faces of politics
Nothing new, nothing more, the war is still fuming in other countries, sometimes in our own, homeless survivors
People with the same name, though they do not look the same, their clothes different, the eyes darker
Pointing fingers, trying to blame, looking the other way, blown to pieces, innocent, no shells upon the sands
Just fearing the next man, walking targets, sometimes, by surprise, those just passing by, even in the schools,
Someone, not right, takes evil to the next level, at a concert, in a mall, what the hell has happened to our world
Death of a writer, no other can fill the shoes, the writer, is unique, the words of no other, but some where, some day, the time will come for that rainbow, and the birds will sing again, rising up to another poem of love, not hate
Death of a poet, and his fate