Swansong

“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.