So many years in retrospect,
a sea of dried up pens,
ink enough if in one line
would to the moon and back again.
How the timbre changed,
looking back on ancient thoughts
now seems I was deranged.
Yet all these thoughts are guarded,
by comma’s fence and period’s gate,
although from matter ancient,
there’s purpose bound to every lay.
By stowed and dated binders,
by copies in the cloud,
by printer’s bind and published ink
I pray their lines will stick around
long after I’m gone.
Although some seem archaic,
although distaste from some be rent,
some reach for heights immortal,
that through these, thoughts of God be sent…
and there, if touch just one –
I’ll know my work is done.