A Fading Light
The poetic soul revives
when listeners sit and stay.
“Pay the poet’s tab,” I plead,
“since he labored for a day.”
Not worth a cup of coffee?
Though he chased your cold away,
and warmed your neighbor’s weary bones,
and made the pretty girl say,
"I haven't been this happy
since it was the month of May."
It is worth the price of coffee,
it is worth a whole damned meal
what he offers is a treasure
that lesser men would steal.
A poet is a fading light
whose words are but a whisper
whose shadow cannot escape the night
as Autumn cold turns crisper.
Honor the artist now, my friend,
while he thanks you for to listen
as the day will come
when the poet is gone
leaving an empty cistern.
Dimly
and dimmer yet
time creeps
leading young men
astray
sweeping aside
yesterday’s child
turning him
old and grey.
Fortunate you
who the poet spoke to
for he only wanted to play.
His prose will then stand
and speak for the man
when his light has faded away.
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