His works of note all thrown away,
His pencils carefully honed to points
As sharp as pain in his old joints,
As brittle as a witch’s ire
All tossed into the open fire.
The age'd poet died today;No fame or fortune came his way.
And in the last notebook he’d kept,
The tear stained pages where he’d wept
Upon the knowledge Death drew near,
His final stanza written there. . .
And to my children if they’d care:The heavy burdens that I bear
Will soon be lifted from my shoulder,
For days grow dark, and I grow older.
And none can rescue time gone by
From the clock’s slow ticking cry.
But save this verse, and carve this curse:
“His epitaph should ever tell
They didn’t know he loved them well.”
The age'd poet died todayHis final stanza locked away
In smoke toward Heaven--last desire
Unread, burned black by callused fire.