EPITAPH OF A NAMELESS POET
Here lies he who on this day died.
Who had no shame, lo worse, no pride.
Who loved to write but sold his pen
To meet merit of other men.
The challenge met, not withstanding,
Only cost of understanding.
In perfect meter laid to rest
Forgotten with life's works in jest.
His manuscript, a lemming's song
Society could ne'er call wrong.
Stacked upon the insipid heap
Of soulless rhyme now six foot deep.
All eyes closed to the burning truth
Of passion his pen held in youth.
Identity lost to the game
Of perfect poetry and fame
Accounted to conformity.
Emotion forfeit to acclaim,
This poet died without a name!
For all behind was dark and drear,
And all before was night and fear.
How many hours of night or day
In those suspended pangs I lay,
I could not tell; I scarcely knew
If this were human breath I drew.
[This message has been edited by Michael (edited 03-16-2000).]