By the sea
The Forgotten Poet
I walk toward a solemn stone
where birds have left their gifts behind.
Forgotten weeds wrap o’er his name.
Forgotten also, is his mind.
Beneath an oak of Spanish moss,
lies one that shared his life through rhyme.
The dust now gathers on his words.
He never fit within his time.
He could’ve had a monument,
but chose to have a simple grave.
He was a man that always dreamed,
to his emotions, was a slave.
His life cut short, but still he filled,
each day with more than most will know.
So sensitive, his spirit was.
I watched it blossom, felt it grow.
I held his hand that fearful night.
A poem he penned, to be his last.
He signed his name, gave it to me.
Since then, so many years have passed.
The years have passed, but grief lives on.
In words, the man he was will thrive.
I’ll dust them off and then I’ll read.
Through words, he’ll always be alive.
There is more depth to the heart than the mind can comprehend and it only has boundaries when we choose to fence it in.