So the night has fallen
Soon the dead of this misty night will usher the midnight gloom
My haunts of imagination still utter

I wish I could be a poem
Instead of a forged making as if I were a poet

To behold you opening your soul to me
To be the words limned on poetic canvas
To onlook you feel animated as you will read me, then

To be left alone, to evanesce
Like the calming, delicate mist hanging over the river evaporates in the morning sunshine

To be your soon to be forgotten lines
Conceived within your wondrous mind
Born upon your sublime imagination
Moulded with your deliberate love and decisive rhyme, then

To be solus, consigned to oblivion and unloved
Like a waning moon, dimmed smile and broken dove

What once was a beautifully polished and stirring wordplay, soon

To be nothing and utterly replaced

Like a song newly heard
I will be loved
Once a last musical note fades
I will be dead.