Self Preservation (Poetry)
09th September 2012
The voice is now an echo,
the pen lies cold and still
but poems burn, unquenchable,
like beacons on a hill —
a light to lift the spirit
with words to feed the flame,
for Death may take the poet
but the page preserves his name.
the pen lies cold and still
but poems burn, unquenchable,
like beacons on a hill —
a light to lift the spirit
with words to feed the flame,
for Death may take the poet
but the page preserves his name.