I harbour a dark secret
Arising in the most quiet of moments,
A haunting vision of some future time
When someone, perhaps a student
Or an idler browsing the dusty stacks
Of forgotten verses by forgotten authors
And happens upon Palimpsest,
Dust cover torn, images faded, pages dogeared.
Well worn but little read.
It is all that I have.
What more is there to do?
My hope, my prayer, my fanciful dream
Is to have them glance through the pages
And think to themselves “Who was this person?
What devils haunted, what angels inspired?
Where did all this come from
And what drove him to this labour?
While not complete
And not yet ordered
It remains my Opus Magnus,
The lasting work of head and heart and hands,
It is all that I have.
What more is there to do?
It is foolishness to think
That I will be remembered
For anything beyond these words.
These words.
These words are all That I have.
To me they have meaning
And purpose beyond the page.
I have written my own epitaph
And laid it out for others to judge
And evaluate its worth.
It is all that I have.
What more is there to do?
There are pieces of beauty, grace
And the odd transcendental moment
Where I may have touched upon
That which is common to us all.
My purpose was to give expression
To ideas, scenes, observations
And all the things that seventy-five years
Have brought and laid before me.
I do not paint.
I do not sculpt nor act on stage,
Nor dance nor sing,
And so I write.
It is all that I have.
What more is there to do?