Somehow I feel compelled to write-
For I feel the Specter's hand-
A losing battle do I fight-
And yet I cannot stand....
To think of all I’ve seen and done,
The places I have gone...
Die with me, nor the memories
Of people I have known.
The desert...Oh, the memories
I have of that harsh land...
With it’s own unique beauties
Right from Creation’s hand.
The forests of the great Northwest-
Their carpeting of moss-
And lovely canopy of green,
Which leaves me at a loss....
To frame with words... the peacefulness
I found pervades the very air
Beneath those lofty trees.
And friends? Well, Rip...he died too young
And me? I’ve lived too long.
Been lured upon the shoals of life
By many siren’s songs.
And love? Oh, yes, I’ve known that, too
And heartache and despair-
Perhaps no more than all my peers-
With gray within their hair.
I guess that I must write to live-
And if that sounds too trite...
Perhaps ‘twould be more fitting-
If I said, “I live to write”?
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