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.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
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.
