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Poem

Doth if not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart? 

A boy of seven opens his eyes
he's dreamy and young
sees his whole life ride
the beautiful song first breath had sung


Now seventeen he knows it all
he has seen all it's strings
and stands quite tall
among the puppets and the pompous kings


Twenty five he has a lady
marries her so fair
together raise their baby
a love quite pure and ever rare


Fifty is when the madam died
the world tasted so bleak
as hard as he tried
his depression started to leak

 
Here's where it gets absurd
insane as it may be
that may not be the right word
but let me tell you of a man short of ninety

 
He's old and frail
a smell of mothballs in the air
as he tells his tale
from the beginning when his boat set sail

 
Right before this man passed
he realized what it meant to live
and how dumb he was in his past
and all that he would give

 
To have one new moment
one new sound
to live, grasp, and own it
and all that he missed while looking at the ground

 
I'll tell you this he heard something new
as his death began to ensue
he heard a million tiny bells
chiming his name in one last earthly farewell

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