I sit and ponder, pen in hand, my words like blowing, drifting sand. But as I take a poet's breath, what purpose silence til my death? Somehow my writing gone astray, as laurels past obscurely lay. But I can only give so much, a word, a phrase, a poet's touch. Each verse I write a part of me, in open rage--on bended knee. To lend an ear is all I need, to heal the wound--to sow the seed. I would ease your pain, if I could, my words enlighten, if they would. Mid fantasy and knowing caught, I am no source of wisdom sought. At break of dawn, lone bird takes flight, easteard bent towards sun's new light. Life giving rays, too death sustained, poor Icaris--no wings remained. I gaze upon blank page in fright, so roll the drums and dim the light. For now they play my farewell song, and if you wish--then sing along. As distant notes like sorrow fade, beyond my finite pledges made. To dust returned by time's sure wind, a final thought--what might have been.