THE LAST POEM
I can’t believe this is going to be the last poem I ever get to write;
These blank pages were like my best friend, who sung me a lullaby when the darkness consumed me at night.
This pen has become an extension of my body, over the years it’s been fused to my hand;
My time is now up, its game over, as my hour glass of life has just completely run out of sand.
To you it’s just a pen and a blank sheet, waiting to be filled with a verse;
To me these words have consumed my heart, as the ink has become my addictive cruel curse.
If it wasn’t for these verses, I wouldn’t be here writing a dream;
The ink starts to fade away, as my pages begin to scream.
I thank you for saving my life, but my pen is refusing to write the word goodbye;
My pen starts to leak over the page, as tear of ink start falling from the sky.
I followed my destiny, it lead me to this moment, as the last poem floats away to the heavens taking flight;
As this final letter reaches the clouds, my angels whisper out “IT WAS YOUR DESTINY TO WRITE”.
BARRY MOWLES ©2011