The Dying of the Poet’s Dream

I have this fear that beyond my years Every word I’ve said or written will be gone, Like dust in the wind or seas where rivers end These thoughts of mine will vanish with the dawn. No money or fame do I proclaim Nor legacies of great things I have done, No battle scars or discovered stars Or a trace of any race I’ve lost or won. Like most of those whose time now holds Their words and thoughts erased, Confetti like into the skies I fear that wordless fate. The dying of the poet’s dream Of living beyond oblivion, For someone to read these words indeed Would save this soul from carrion. Only time will tell if letters spell The end of all these phrases, Mere scribbles now that may somehow Be read on future pages. © Terrell Martin, 01/05/2025