The Poet Poem by chris schwartz

The words of the poet fall quietly
Into the graveyard,
Of those who cannot yet see
How the cherry Blossoms
Bloom so quickly
And then fall
Decorating the hard cement
With their color.
They cannot read the lines
Of something
Unexperienced,
The audience of the blind
Can only imagine
What's on stage.
Yet they wonder.
And they ponder,
What's to come.
But, the words of a poet
Could have told them,
Could have comforted them,
Long before the creek
The babbling creek
Where they built their dream
Flooded over,
That spring is never meant to last.
It is then,
And only then,
That the words of the poet
Are searched for meaning,
Too late to elate
And too young to inspire
The new blossoms
Of age.
The poet weeps silently
Death's early grave
Reminds him
That he was not able
To save you, from yourself.
But, he smiles in knowing,
That he will still save you.
Long after he is gone.