My words will live forever; people die
I guess that makes my verse immortal words
But more than words or some immortal lie
My life unfolds in quatrains, like three thirds
The past, the present, future are my song
My final couplet waits within its rhyme
A sonnet for a life may not be wrong
Iambically, I mark my metered time
I turn to paths I’ve chosen from the start
On similes and metaphors, I tread
They bleed within the beating of my heart
They bleed until, allusively, they’re dead
With stacks of books, the graveyards have been filled
They live, and yet some verses should be killed.