THE END OF POETRY
How strange to be of the last;
to write in the end and dregs of time,
but must needs believe, as in the past
that many to come might be reading mine.
A part who knows the grains run out
and another hoping for posterity;
with this contradicting mud about
to still pen down some clarity.
It breaks my heart how few might read,
but more torn I’d be if not to write -
for creating in me is a greater need
and I must still try with might on might.
Even if my audience be one indeed,
I will write for Heaven and give hell spite.
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