He was such an intense writer
that he wanted to die
from an infected paper cut
if only to prove
he died for his art.
His body was as thin and white as a page
that smelled of ink.
I think he bled it, thick and red.
You could see his words as he spoke
in bold Courier New.
Everything from his mouth or hand
was as vivid as a poem
even shopping lists and directions,
and when he finally died
his brain was clogged
with the thick residue of stories,
and a council of his characters
carried him to the afterlife
where he danced amongst
an endless supply of blank leaves
and never ending fountains of black and blue.