The poet sits in dim lit den;
his gnarled fingers grasp his pen;
a simple tool of common men;
his sword of truth that tells no lies.
Unsteady hand slowly records
his life, his legacy of words.
Each line compels him to move towards
the facts - his need to justify.
He wants to make his story known;
the tale that caused his own breakdown
of faithful wife who some how drown
one day before his very eyes.
He tried to save her, now his grief,
his outrage and his disbelief
fill him with pain beyond relief.
She died and he does not know why.
He tarries not, he feels the need
to hasten, so to God he pleads
for energy, for strength, for speed.
He bows his head and softly sighs.
And as he pours out every line,
the fragments of his life entwine
with love for his wife, Caroline -
their joy, his woe. The poet cries.
His hands shake as the tears are spilt.
Each one, a knife, plunged to the hilt
that drains him of this senseless guilt
he never thought he’d rectify.
The time has flown, it’s half past ten.
Alas, now cleansed, he stills the pen,
folds up the page, retires, and then
absolved, the poet sleeps, then dies.