The Dying Poet

As shadows climb and mingle with the light, The dying poet reaches for his pen, To catch the fleeting image of the night And phrase a moment’s beauty once again. Some deem the poet’s gift to be a curse, An endless quest with lines of written woe; Yet method’s ‘neath the madness of his verse, Reflections leave his mind with much to know. And he’ll not fear the darkness as it nears; For he's been dying long before his death. The ink that trails behind to mark his years, Will spill his soul until that final breath. With but a whisper left for him to give, The dying poet leaves his words to live.