By the sea
The Day They Buried Poetry
Two years ago his poems died,
when fate chose that it have revenge.
I heard the creaking of a hinge
and listened as the mourners cried.
The author ambled off with cane,
while day lay wet upon his brow.
If words could be revived somehow,
but no, they died in severe pain.
They buried them with no fanfare.
No stone was left to mark the spot.
His sincere words are now forgot,
the many thoughts he tried to share.
In wee of morn, near sigh of day,
alone, he still pens poetry,
but not like works you used to see.
His thought‘s obscured, his temples, gray.