Surely a poem unwritten
Circled in space by
Rose pedaled flowers
Romanced by a tear in the eye
A bird with broken wings
Still tries but cannot fly
For only the poet within
Separating real love from sin
Finding solace in the bitter wind
Floating with Angels to find glory
For the dying poet that is his story
For in his heart he must know
It is not his words that are the show
But that surroundings caressing his being
As seasons written come and go
In rain sleet and cascading snow
It is in the spring that flowers grow
And all in his glory must someday die
fading and becoming another star in the sky
Another poet I see far above in fading mist
Someday will it be me who is blessed and kissed
The Eagle soars the Raven calls out
Another poet is dying the galaxies are filling
Not yet my Lord there is yet more poetry coming out
Only lost today in the blank space of writers block
Or indeed is that where poets go when they die?