If my writing ever takes me
Even close to notoriety,
(Or infamy; more likely)
And my poems marry paper,
Become books lost in libraries,
They will house a small biography,
Black and write and written for me,
(With a greyscale portrait, maybe)
And my life will be condensed.
'She lives, and she lives happily,
With the one she loves unfailingly.'
And that will tell sufficiently
Of the muse behind my words.