Stamping and Embossing

A poor poet polished his pen
gathered the the grouping of verse
second hand suit stained with dank desperation
poverty pained and perverse

rubber bands rounded the readings
sweat sat on silvery hair
holding the heart of his life's fascination
clutched in perspiring pair

time had invoked the robed reaper
cancer would come without care
driving his dreams to the last destination
crying for someone to care

No prints were made of his pages
wisdom was woeful and worn
ragged and wrinkled, this ancient equation
his parchment too tattered and torn

silent, his soul had surrendered
solitude save for his pen
packing away his poetic salvation
to never be gazed on again
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