The tragic poet cannot write his history in the hillside.   Still desperate, fingers claw the ground.   The fragile poet learns how night will lose it's memory   of veins exposed in moonlight   when the sleep is washed from it's eyes.      The tragic poet cuts himself wide open,   flaunts vulnerability for a moment,   and cries.   "Tell me you don't hear the swan."      The tragic poet writes himself in the past tense   with both hands on heart.   He does not feel himself move.      Fearing himself forgotten.      "Oh prints in wet sand, stay a while.   The clock fell from the wall,   or was it taken down?   Tonight I'm not so certain."      Fragile poet holding letters still intact,   a brittle poetry of self,   a brittle poetry of... ?   And he cut himself so deep,   bleed himself so clear.   All the children grew up too soon   and saw right through him.   Fearing   himself   forgotten.      "Tell me you don't hear the swan,   hear her sing, hear the drum fade.   This charlatan throws a ribbon of verse   against a starless night sky   and watches the prints fade   from each moment      forgotten."