Where Are The Other Poets?
Poetry Is Not That As It Used To be|
Where one may in sophistication see
Nor tell the real story's truth and why
Lest, pray tell it be written across the sky
Am I to continue here alone?
Work my fingers to the bone?
Go on forever with this verse?
Is this my everlasting curse?
I think not! For it is a joy
Methinks I have a brand new toy
And if no one attends here with me
This then is my lasting pleasure free
For it is to me to say my every mood
Since I find myself in blessed solitude
Others are welcome here of course
As when we began without remorse
Every one must think this poem is too long
'Ere would they end their own life's song?
Each one would surely have a go at age
Not ending it at such an early stage
When boredom doth seep in as a vapor
Wetting life's dreams as soggy paper
Then casting lust for life to airy wind
The gentle flowing to the lungs abscind
To bring the rhyme of life to naught
Barter time and life not as one ought
But leap into the very depths of hell
Leaving none to grieve or care to tell
Would any care to rhyme just one more verse?
Just one line and you may make it terse
Then will I continue on for a short while
Until inspired to end this song in style
This is the end, I fear That I've become a bore
There is much to be said, but not here any more
The tale is ended, Crescendoed, then hit a low
Brass all in the boxes, strings packed with the bow
The good wine has flowed, There's none at center stage
The cabinet is empty now, You'll find no wine with age
The song is sung, the echo faded, the audience was right
One last look, and missing all the fare, I say goodnight
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