The Poet

Something that remains.i

THE POET


With pen in hand
and thoughts on rhyme
with memory
of other time
The hand that wrote
so well back then
now can barely
hold the pen.
With mind alert
for one his age
he puts his mark
upon the page.
In words that all
but mystify
he writes of love
of days gone by.
If we will look
I think we'll see
and on this thing
will all agree.
The poet may age
and pass away
but what he writes
is here to stay.