When Do Artist Die? It is not the moment Our heart stop beating in our chests. When we draw our last breath No. It is when the candlelight we followed In this hazy twilight flickers And leaves us blind to wander this wretched wood I am a dead man I spend my evenings among those lucky enough To never lived at all We watch the living There are living on the stage tonight Were I still a poet I’d appreciate the horizon curve in their spines in sonnets Would if I could describe the siren call Of the synchronized steps of their pointe shoes along the polished wood floors of the stage Turns and turns make tornadoes that shake this theater A storm we all weather with gratitude These young dancers are alive for now And the echo of envy sits in my soul Still my old knees creak with the speed at which I stand for my ovation My palms string from the force of their clapping I wander the land of the dead and watch the living I long for a resurrection