When The Poet In Me Passes Poem by Alex Cairnie

My life has been a poem, and it's verse has been my mind
It's been dark, and cold, and sometimes fine
Perhaps sometimes unkind

It keeps me up with restless sleep, though closed my eyes still see
The words I write inside my head
the thoughts that burden me

They come and go so very quick, I must rest pen in hand
Or lost forever they become, among the dust and sand

My poems are the voices, the memories and the sound
Of lives I've lived in far off lands, and friends left in the ground

Alone with just the darkness
I can find no better place
Where words become the poet
And each line becomes the face

Ive written longer than I can recall
Its grip consumed my soul
And sometimes all I had were words, there comfort made me whole

When the poet in me passes, and the words have all dried up
And my trembling hands cannot contain the tea within my cup

I will leave it all to judging
Let someone else make sense of it
And pray they read with different eyes
And add a little wit

I'll give my pen and paper, to someone else's hand
And all I'll ask is they recite, close to where my grave does stand

For words they were my laughter,
They just came without a smile, and the poets were my first love, and a love I thought worthwhile

AC