‘I have read, I have cried, and I have
Supped full with passion and horror,’
Thought the poet, his eyes preternaturally bright,
‘I have ticked away the seconds in a dry age
And have put pain to paper and turned rage to words,
As is a poet’s job.
But, most importantly, I stood in the night
And felt the breeze blow mortality;
I stood in a field of flowers under the sun
And knew the Power of God;
I played carelessly within the silverness of the moon
And relearned the untroubled days of childhood;
I held her hand, and watched that same moon
Rise in her eyes
And knew Love.’
The poet stops, sighs and wipes tears from his eyes.
He sits quietly for a moment and then continues:
‘These are the things that truly define me or men
Or Mankind; it’s not the things written or said,
It’s the things that are lived.’
The light in the poet’s eyes fades.
The poet dies.
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