Rhyme Doesn't Pay

With scraps of paper I began The journey of my life, According to some Master Plan, That brought both joy and strife... To be a writer was my quest From decades long ago, That drove me on to do my best To let my poems flow... And so the blood within my veins, That poured down from my brain, Brought forth a thousand fresh refrains, My stories to explain... My treasure trove, my poetry, My gift to young and old, My agony, my ecstasy, My tales that must be told... Thus from the yearnings of my youth Unto this present day, This poet strove to tell the truth In some prosaic way... Such that some wisdom I could share, Perchance to lift the heart, To elevate lost souls to prayer, My God, how great Thou art... So let that be my epitaph, My lifelong summary, I helped some cry, I helped some laugh, Despite mortality... Now at the end of life on Earth, God knows the good and bad, I only know that since my birth, I gave all that I had... Though I've lost count of all I wrote, Ten thousand, maybe more, Plus precious songs I thought of note, As if to set the score... Of all I penned across the years, My faith has served me well, Despite the lonely cup of tears That from these eyes once fell... Rhyme doesn't pay, alack, alas, Most times it's but a gift, Like catching insights that amass On sand dune hills that drift... My words live on in hearts and minds, Read from anthologies, Perchance to bless each soul that finds My treasures meant to please... Denis Martindale, copyright, May 2013.