When ink no longer flows from wells
through pens that bring the poet’s tale –
When stars decline to shine through nights
of bible black and moonless heights –
When breezes fail to stir the musk
of woodland’s stagnant summer husk –
Tis then my heart will write in blood
by candle flame of passion’s flood
drawn sweet across my sweating skin
to bring it all to life again!
When fate denies the hands of time,
freezing metronomes in rhyme –
When strings and bow default to mute,
failing note’s enamored suit –
When carol and the chorus gone
from symphonies’ now retched song –
Tis then that I by stomping foot
will raise the rhythm from the soot,
howling loud with dog and cat
to mount this music strong and fat!
When life blood dries and I have gone
to brighter pastures, green and long –
When heart beat thrums have left my chest
and drift in ashes final rest –
When hands are cold and voices dry,
when worldly sparks deny my eye –
Tis then that I will rise again
through souls of ink and nibs of pen!
Tis then this poet’s art will thrive
and through the ages come alive!