Death or a Poet

I've been here for sometime
My hands grow old
My words rust into ancient rhymes
And my heart still beating, just as cold

I live a poets life
I speak my rhymes
But never hold a knife
Or commit the fatal crime

I play the words
Like the wolf in packs
Playing with the herds
And bitting at their backs

I do not lack
In the job I do
There's no money sack
Or any bills due

There's just the paper
A bottle of ink
My tears that become vapor
And I, constantly sink.