Death belongs to the Dark side, my dear. Poets die but poems will countinue living. Poem is the spirit and soul of poet. If the spirit or soul still there, the poet will be there just in a different form. right?
I'll live forever (or die trying) and so will you.
I remember the challenge and sitting down to write a worthy offering - unfortunately this was all I could come up with. Since my muse bypass I've not written a line, I'm not sure if I ever will, but I still read and tinker with my old poems so you may find one or two edits from the original.
My couch is always available I'm an expert on dreams.
The memory of the poet lives but the body and mind of the poet dies and that's the bit I'm most attached to.
And I would trade a thousand years of fame For two more minutes whispering her name
Los Angeles California
"The memory of the poet lives but the body and mind of the poet dies and that's the bit I'm most attached to." I just had to highlight this reply, as it is the definitive Monsieur le Grinch! I happen to be equally attached to my earthly body and its endeavors, and know full well that anything remotely resembling poetry coming from my pen will more likely be used as wastebasket liners than treasured shelf spacers.