Streonæshalch

Big writers never live nowhere
With no big writer friends at all.
Big writers only, sometimes, die

Nowhere, where they have been exiled
Or first live small years as not big
Writers, to be exhumed later.

Nowhere writers can grow and grow
Postmortem, like a corpse’s hair
And fingernails, like the legends

That corpses’ hair and fingernails
Grow, when they don’t. Words don’t pull back
As quickly as the life retracts,

And every so often someone
Is exhumed and declared undead.
Undead writers grow scary big

And become worldwide wanderers
Who don’t depend on location,
Long shadows over nowhere’s walls.