I am merely mortal man
my soul doth seem to cry
and the curse of being merely mortal
is that mortal man must die

fain would i defeat that death
hurl insults at my fate
and live at least ten thousand years
before knocking on heaven's gate

though god's will perchance is not my own
my innermost being doth know
that when my life comes to an end
i am free, i have my soul

and should my life be filled with pain
ere death's agonies come at last
the blessing of being merely mortal
is in the end, this too shall pass

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.

Hep me, hep me, . . . Help me . . I think I'm addicted to responding

. . . to your word-paintings.