Writers never die

We traveled state routes
Out back behind the hills where the field corn played hide and seek
filling in our view
Only good enough now for the horses to consume
But my eyes take in a whole dinner of genetically modified meals fit for quite a few
The beat thumped as the wheels pumped forward
Like the lights and sounds of last nights late night out
Just foreigners touring a familiar landscape of four corners
Now spread into highways and crowded
The same night we walked
Smoking joints in the parking lot
A tapestry of ivy cover gripping the walls
And four apples ripe and left sitting idle
Conspicuously occupying the sidewalk
No need for small talk for it was all large as life
Just wish the atmosphere had been more inviting
But we satisfy this city by feeding the streetlights
Giving the alleys reason to be sharpening their sights on shadows
Harboring their dark gallows
And finding us passed out in their arms
We wait to come to, till the morning alarm has been silenced on snooze
And we lie in the violent jaws of a progressive hangover consuming
The morning routine
Foraging for a spoon to stir half spoiled cream into coffee now lukewarm
And left half sipped in the sink
For my time draws blank
With every hour of missed sleep
And I paint the streets with sidewalk chalk to parlay the rain from bleeding it
And feeding it to the past
While I tag my words on caskets
For writers never die
They just end up buried in the next chapter
Six feet inside their spiral binding or scattered out in ashes Their words forever servers to the future of the masses
For my sutured pages are all that are free in this world
And my voice shall be heard until passing