The Grave of a Coward

What does he do; what does he say
This writer of lines
When he no longer finds joy in the light of day,
When all the soul within him pines?
He stares at the page, foreboding and white
And he draws upon it a star
To recall the power of the sable night
And galaxies burning afar
Then he writes in scribbled script
Something from before
Hoping his spirit will have slipped
Unseen into the score
He does what he can against the perfect page
To steel his nerves
And calm his heart fearfully beating a rage
For the art that he serves
He bites his lip, and sets his pen down
And questions his life
Whether his savior has horns or a thorny crown
Or is the blade of a knife

He can't do love; love's been done to death
He can't do freedom
There's not any freedom left
That just leaves doom
This writer does doom very well
He's drawn the plan
Many times from his door to the pits of Hell
And the fall of man
He pushes the heels of his hands to his eyes
Then tilts his head back
He thinks of stars burning in night's skies
Upon their canvas of black
He stands from his chair and walks around the room
As he lights a cigarette
He wants to write about universal doom
Not the pain he can't forget
Timid he walks far away from the page
He can't set the truth free
He leaves it, along with his fear, locked in a cage
And looks for somewhere to flee

He grew older, but never was he saved
From the memories that had soured
And years later when they put him in the grave
The stone read "The Grave of a Coward."