EPITAPH OF AN OBSCURE POET
Here lies he who on this day died.
Who held his pen as he held pride.
In ink letting emotion go,
Not confounded by rules of flow.
The critics came, the critics saw,
Pointed out each and every flaw.
The meter here, the rhyme scheme there,
The obscurities everywhere.
But never would this poet give.
‘Er writing dead that soul may live.
His gift for those who understood,
More than enough to call it good.
No fame sought there, nor perfection.
Just tokens of the heart's reflection.
Shared among his closest friends
In memory that never ends.
Lesson given for all of you,
To thine own poetry be true.
For though Death call us each the same,
At least this marker bears a name.
Michael R. Anderson
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).]