Death comes for a poet

With a plume of smoke rising

From a quill, pen, computer key.

When we write in love or hate

We have no choice in the path we follow

For all roads lead to home.

Whether you leave this plane

With the wealth of a nation

Or in poverty

In fame or deep obscurity

The real tragedy

Is that no-one gets to enjoy immortality.

Our saving grace is that we are the few

Who truly get to write

Our own elegy.

We are the few capable

Of surviving death and time.

Alas we may never see

Our elegy bloom,

Rise to become our eulogy.