Ode to an Old Author

I once knew a man with blood black as ink.
He scattered his dreams across printed pages.
Words flowed from fingers, as water to drink,
Quenching a thirst in his fierce heart that rages.

Hail to those who think him gone to rest,
Where angels on high pluck strings of a harp,
Raising praise to his name among the best.
No longer need for pen, nor pencil sharp.

Truth be, his name fades on bindings of old.
Tainted is the meaning of words mistaken,
Lay covered in dust the darkness their hold.
Mourned is the life of his work forsaken.

Ah, but those of us that well knew him say,
He never died, he simply wrote away.