Painting the walls of time

With a brush for the ages.

Leaving a cloud of thought,

For future sages.

I but the poet poor

With  a pen in hand.

Can determine what I will

As if it were but a grain of sand.

Grasping a tomorrow

As if it were today.

Leaving an imprint

In what I have to say.

No mere words by chance

Are lost in an abyss.

For tomorrow  they'll

Be remembered.

For such is why a poet writes-

Not for vain glory, oh no.

But for what a reader understands,

Which is beyond a poets mind.