My heart beats in time with the scratching of my quill pen on the silent, tear-stained pages. Every so often, I pause to collect the carnival of words parading around my mind. Tonight...tonight, I must focus. For tonight, even as I feel the life drain out of me, I must leave the world with mere pages of immortal words.
My poetry fills the nearly-full journal of yellowing pages. Feathery silver ink meets paper as I pour the dying embers of my once-strong, now-numb emotions into the pages that will contain my parting words.
Even as the rain falls down around me, I am not cold. I am not shivering. I am not wet. I am unfeeling as the poison that laces my veins finishes its fatal work.
Even as I took the draught in the place of the one I love, I knew that I was going to die.
Even as I write these words, I feel an inexplicably ominous tremble caress my fingers.
Even as I die, I write.
These silent, tear-stained pages will hold my final words. The final impression I wish to leave on the world must be limited to this mortal journal.
The light of my eyes fades, and pen falls from fingers.