posted on Feb, 8 2010 @ 04:24 PM
In a comfortable chair, from a commanding perch,
I look past the mortals in my poetry search,
discounting the ones that leave nought behind,
it's a terrible waste of . . of some wonderful minds.
The poet does poems, the writer does write,
both hoping maybe . . this time they might,
leave something worthy, to someone of need,
a person that feels and bothers to read. . . these words.
Ah, . . . the giddy-ness of being . . . immortal, . . if only on paper,
for those . . . of like manner.