Bard on a Wire

I am like to a
Bard on a Wire:
When my poetry’s on fire
I just can’t put it out.
But, when I am sifting through the cold ashes
I often find nothing there
Apart from the occasional dots and ill-informed dashes;
Where once there was heat
Now just coldness does remain
And in dawn’s cool light
Those once fired embers contain
Little, if anything, of worth.

When I am gone
Will there be any thing left
Or will my leaving leave no one bereft
Will there be no visible evidence
Of my words, my foolish nonsense?
Or will those pages still await the touch of a pen
(Other than mine)
That has been called to action
To scribe on its line
To find purpose again.


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