The Dead Writer

He wrote such exquisite verse;
Such exquisite prose;
Such exquisite stories.
Twelve Thousand pages;
Five Million Words.
He was dead, having little else.
His family rummaged through the work;
Dull they were, and no friends in sight.
They threw it in the trash.
All the boasts of being a man of history
Gone, the writer died,
And was forgotten by his brother's children.