Come and see the old poet
Laying in his bed of ashes and dust,
His love in ruins
His mentality frozen by restless rust,
His hungry heart emptied of it's fertile blood
His souls melodic purpose nearly gone,
The mellifluous music now so silent
The end, of a once wonderful and powerful song.
What happened to this poet
With dread you may ask,
The ancient story ofcourse
The evils of age and wear, and so damned many things out there
Working away at his heart, fulfilling their wretched task.
When poets speak truth and beauty into this old world
Any breath may be their last,
For so many evil spirits will stalk them
With an endless passion to haunt, from the past.
Deep hearts risk
Becoming weary and tossed,
When singing lamantations
Of all that's lost.
Still this old poet wrote
For was his vocation so to do,
Even through the battles with doubt
He held on, ever true.
Words from his heart
He rended to give,
The conundrum being
It cost him his life, to fully live...
So look! Look deep
Here lays the old poet - in state
Having succumbed - like all the living shall
To mankinds unavoidable fate.
May all the aging poets forever
Rest in peace, and ever be blest,
For the words dug with pain from the depths of their souls
Are nothing less than the very best.
(for: Townes Van Zandt)
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