I, The Poet Poem by Daniel McDonagh

I, the poet,
Stand by my Grave,
Were pauper hands
Have cleaned and saved,
My name is corroding, the Words are growing thin
And blind, the rain like
Before and always, is desperately unkind.
The home where I was born, is
Flat wasteland, my childhood
Voice is a chill in the air,
My life, my home, has been
Stripped bare, I am a ghost
With dark weary eyes, walking
The streets were I died.
I was never employed, ten
Years passed me in darkness,
I was rooted like flowers,
Picked to wilt and die,
And ten years of misery and
Desperation encouraged me to
An isolated destination.
And for those ten years, my life never
Tasted love or stared closely
At porcelain eyes, silk hands
And rose lips never whispered
Passion or lust, just
Rejection, I was lost.
Comrades and companions lay
At peace under hard soil
In the Poverty Gates were
A simple cross only spelled their
Names, and weeds and
Grass grew wild to
Play natures game.
I, the poet, left wandering
Through shallow water
Till my breath gave a last
Farewell, I floated during
The night like an empty
Boat adrift on the ocean
Being guided by the stars
And I entered my eternity
Free from social wars.
And today, I stand as my
Reflection, for my time in
Hell is over, thankfully, and
I’ve chosen the nomadic life
Over the entrance to the
Pearly gates, as my companions
Await me and the time is Getting late.