From this heart come the words of this my weary soul.

Words tried by fire, emblazoned by a life once whole.

Yet who shall say of this “come look, come read”?

For from these words comes now the forgotten need.

Yea, come one hundred years hence, these words; this heart shall become dust.

Words humble, syllables congregated, passages relayed by hope, by trust.

So question I this most sincere before the omnibus of this singular time.

Why now should these thoughts spill forth only to slowly die?

For I have seen where old poets go, I have seen their sad and untimely end.

I have wept upon their tattered pages in back alleys with day old gin.

I have felt their hearts cry as their words dissolved before my eyes.

I have caught but a mirrors glance of their fleeting soul and bitterly sighed.

J. Allen Wilson ©10/2007