Buried behind a sandy knoll.
Petrified nails clutch
a tattered scroll.

The paper cracks beneath his grip.
A wince, a glance,
the stench of crypt.

Featured in this ancient scroll.
A script? A poem?
A captured soul?

Hearts then mourned with shoulders dipped.
His thoughts, his truths,
his words once lipped.

Frayed cloth shrouds his porous bones.
His words, his deliverance;
stalled time... disowns?

Buried behind this sandy knoll.
His petrified nails...
his tattered scroll.

A grip, a glance of his grayish-white.
Still prose in hand
is this writer's might.