Death Of A Poet

Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day's colour Widow the sky, what can he say Worthy of record, the books all open, Pens ready, the faces, sad, Waiting gravely for the tired lips To move once -- what can he say? His tongue wrestles to force one word Past the thick phlegm; no speech, no phrases For the day's news, just the one word ‘sorry'; Sorry for the lies, for the long failure In the poet's war; that he preferred The easier rhythms of the heart To the mind's scansion; that now he dies Intestate, having nothing to leave But a few songs, cold as stones In the thin hands that asked for bread. Submitted by Andrew Mayers