Who will read my verse in time?
will it be you, who holds me in
your high esteem? Yet hell knows
life is but a tomb, we all hide our
sorrows there within.
If I could pen the sincerity and
beauty your shadow casts across
my path, I would linger until dawn
with eternal joy.
You left me with such grace, your
age numbered so young, yet behold
the age that would come would only
say this poet lays in your rest.
The rage of time in antiquity and song
proclaims a stillness to my rhyme, and
like a child I mourn, lost without
you, for all time
As my parchment yellowed with age,
the crumpled edges folded and faded
over time, no scorn from this poet,
for drained his cheeks of color, his
tongue has spoken truths in his verse.
© Copyright 2014 by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved