The day my pen has shed the last of all its tears,
And every dropp of ink upon the pages of
My book has dried, denied will not be those who love
The rhyming forms. These echoed words, which bare my years
And life, may be the only proof I lived. My fears
And hopes, which shaped the ink, have driven me, to move
Me to a higher plane of thought, a step above
The normal grind of verse, which never soothed my ears.
So take my verses, echoed as they are, extol
Them or condemn them, but do something either way.
My death will be your pass to judge them day by day,
Until some night, I hope, they're worth the time you spend
Reciting meager rhymes I had to write, and all
Of which, through diligence and sleepless nights, I penned.