The Printed Version (Poetry)

Everything of me is in these words —
they are small prints I’ve made — my very breath
and after I have gone to who-knows-where
these lines will be the sum of all that’s left

My bones won’t last, my face beyond recall
of those who’ll claim they knew me for a spell
though what they thought I’ve no idea at all
in retrospect it’s probably as well

The truth is here for those with eyes to see
the essence is distilled — a modest brew
of every fleeting dream and fantasy
my limit-free imagination drew

While much of me is here there lurks still more
I’ll never finish — Time’s a rotten thief!
those pieces published samples of my core
ideals in plenty plus tirades of grief

My ‘papers’ are a mess — disorder reigns
the Muse a scatterbrain — a constant tease
my printed words the jist of what remains
as pages turn the boundless spirit breathes ...