Laid now on his smooth bed <br />For the last time, watching dully <br />Through heavy eyelids the day's colour <br />Widow the sky, what can he say <br />Worthy of record, the books all open, <br />Pens ready, the faces, sad, <br />Waiting gravely for the tired lips <br />To move once -- what can he say? <br /> <br />His tongue wrestles to force one word <br />Past the thick phlegm; no speech, no phrases <br />For the day's news, just the one word ‘sorry'; <br />Sorry for the lies, for the long failure <br />In the poet's war; that he preferred <br />The easier rhythms of the heart <br />To the mind's scansion; that now he dies <br />Intestate, having nothing to leave <br />But a few songs, cold as stones <br />In the thin hands that asked for bread. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Andrew Mayers<br /><br />Ronald Stuart Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-of-a-poet/
