Withered (ode to a poet) The withering words fall upon me, I - TopicsExpress



          

Withered (ode to a poet) The withering words fall upon me, I write them as they flow from heart. Tired and weak they descend, They are my life’s dying art. Crippled by thoughts sometimes denied, Hampered by memory loss. They sometimes crawl from the dark. Covered with growth of moss. Some words kind others tempered They all get written down. Truth must be catalogued, While still my mind is sound. The withering words fall upon me. They will till the very end. Even after my time is gone, I might have more words to send. Don’t count out a dying poet, For his/her words are eternal, After death, spoken from heaven, Or maybe the devils infernal. ©REB (APRIL 2014 #69) I will not be forgotten for I am eternal
Posted on: Mon, 21 Apr 2014 21:34:37 +0000

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