This is how we must respond – in verse, in rhyme
When what we knew of life is robbed of time.
Those of us – whose plaster’s black on white
Let grief’s place quick be took by what we write,
And death’s dark shadow lighten up just slight.
The lowly page does catch these tears of mine;
I would this inky charge in duty, might
To heaven’s twisted gate sore loss alight.
Trust – I’d ne’er seek to cheapen pain in art
Most poor. Know the solemn ‘tentions of my heart;
Time stole, I will not think myself allowed
To more, on needless thoughts; I’m not so proud.
A crumpled page does represent this state.
To spread anew, on poesy I must wait.