Were I to die under a bus
Family and friends would cry.
There would be little fuss
Over my literary legacy.
Those few who read my rhyme
Of women and wine
and passing time
May fancy they hear
Skeletons prattle in cupboards
And clocks stop.
But I will not reply
Poetry is bits of paper, blown
Away in the wind.
It is shouting into the breeze,
A voice lost amidst the trees.
It is arrogance overthrown.
It is the poet, who stands alone
Wondering what his legacy
Will be
I live too much in my head.
When I am dead
These words here said
May moulder in bookcases.
I hope they will be read
By those who’s faces
Are healthy with the glow
Produced by England’s country air.
When I go
Why should I care?
For I will not know
Whether it be so …
Some leave institutions behind.
I shall leave a piece of my mind
To be read
When I am dead
(or not as the case may be)!
It amuses me
To think what others may see
In scribbles left behind
By one who lived too much in his own mind.
Words caper
On virtual paper,
As my thoughts one another chase,
Only to be lost in cyberspace.
‘Else my words on pages
Moulder for ages.
But it is not the case
That cyberspace
Does forget,
And dusty tomes, may be read yet.
K Morris - Poet 