The stone was weathered <br />I couldnt read the name <br />still people gathered <br />just the same <br /> <br />though the name couldnt be read <br />I seen a poem on the back that said- <br /> <br />Laying under this stone <br />down in the ground <br />I'm here all alone <br />under this mound <br /> <br />at my head is my stone <br />a vase for flowers to stock <br />my name will be forever known <br />etched in the rock <br /> <br />though I'm just bones <br />people come to see <br />I hear their moans <br />standing over me <br /> <br />they bring me flowers and such <br />for their love to show <br />say they love me much <br />then they go <br /> <br />they tell me things <br />they never said before <br />the joy it brings <br />to me forevermore <br /> <br />then I realized it was me <br />people were coming to see <br />a thousand years past <br />after reading my poems, at last<br /><br />ERNEST CLARY<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-poet-3/
