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“Look! The aging poet sleepwalks again.”
“Sir, should we wake him from his nightly tour?”
“No! God no! His heart could not stand the strain.”
“He’s heading for the open study door 
His ambulant steps on the floorboards creak
With every step along the corridor”
“Listen! The bard is beginning to speak
Let’s heed his words, step softly on the floor.”

           “Where do you lead me
             Erato? Oh! The study
             What for may I ask?”

He sits at his desk with his pen in hand
Writing vigorously on a tablet
Almost as if it were by some command 
His outline cast a dreamy silhouette
On the study wall caused by the moonbeam
Shinning through a curtained opened window  
“He writes with eyes closed in his dream”
“Be still! He calls out the name, Erato”

                  “Erato, you say
             This love poem is my last?
             How so, may I ask?”  

The poets hand stops writing a moment
Than briefly begins again then desists 
Completely; lays the pen down and laments
While rising from his chair clenching both fists
Then begins to walk toward his bedroom 
“Should we read what the old bard has written?”
“Not now!  Let’s follow him back to his room 
“But...” “Please keep quiet! He speaks once again.” 

                       “Erato I have
           Finished what you asked of me
               This is my swansong.” 

The old poet reached the side of his bed
And gently slid under the bed covers
A smile appears than wanes. “Is the bard dead?”
“Yes! He’s gone where all the poet lovers’
Always go: with the lovely Erato”
“I hear a lyre! Do your ears hear the same?”
“Yes! It plays for another poet’s soul
That enters Erato’s love poems domain”
 *******************************
Standing at the old poets study desk
The two men look down upon the tablet
And begin to read the verses expressed
This saddest of nights both will not forget

                  My Swansong
In life all things must always reach its end
My life is no exception to this rule
True love was writing verses with this pen
And know for sure I had not been a fool
Love was all I had to offer in life
Expressed in many forms of poetry
Each I shared with my friends and loving wife
Intent was never a commodity
My time has come; the flame of life grows dim
And everything I have seen in this light
Was through the eyes of love I owe to Him
My hand grows weak, my effort ebbs tonight
I see your face, your myrtle crown and lyre
You strum the strings, sweet music to my ears.
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