Lost In Solitude

A poet once travelled to a distant land, On their own, with nothing but a pad in hand. Shivers and sweats, hots and colds, Crossing places, new and old, They suffered through plagues, purges and illness Caught as a prisoner, kept as witness. Wars and Kingdoms rose, Soldiers and Kings fell, Plains to deserts, And deserts to sands, The fate of the world, Written down by his hands. Hundreds of years, now the poet’s work fades, Video and Static and Paperwork grenades, The pad of his is all torn up and damp, His tears flicker the light of the poet’s lamp, So as he sits there all alone, Looking at the lands he once called home, He sits back and writes one more time, “My life was fun whilst I was alive”