Literary Asthma

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[original pic here http://browse.deviantart.com/?q=choke&order=9&offset=168#/d2d462v - a little manipulated by me].

Death to the poet.

Half words in between

ashes of strangers'

sweat,

there,

lies her tomb.

The crumbling

cultured posed

falling off

a white horse,

its hair fluttering

with the breeze.

The poet has no air,

cum

Pale & in Absolute

porcelain.

The poet is dead.

Blood

until the color red

read finally dead.

One less poetential.

What's the use of sun

when it's always covered

on clouds?