Mark of Cain

As Cain carries his mark of death for all eternity,
Poets bear his mark of loneliness in morality.
With each thought a Poet is dying a thousands deaths!
Every moment relived between his mortal breaths.
Dying to live one more day, writing for the life inside their chest,
Not matter the knives or flowers that bloom and pack their breast!
We sing our pain because we cannot cry,
We lack the tears, so instead we write and privately sigh.
We are our own torturers, there’s no one else, there can’t be!
Choosing to lift this great pen, and love what we wish to see,
No wonder we can’t cry, our eyes too busy looking in dismay,
How much longer will the dreams dreamt carry a nightmare’s way?