A Poet's Last Words

By the time he wrote those words
his soul had sprung a leak
the best he had to offer
long ago had seeped into the ether

He put pen to paper
but the emptiness mocked him
dared him to write a single word
he knew to be true

It would be the first
though words had flown through him
blood to a punctured vein
from the days when his heart was strong

By the time he wrote those words
the needle fluttered on "E"
the last drops, too precious to waste
he knew they'd be the last

The first to admit they never "got him"
with his too-deep jumble of esoterica
he took comfort in the hope that death would bring them understanding
if he couldn't change the world surely the world would change for him

On the day he wrote those words he realized
the sacrifices he made for his art
all but the last were pointless
there's no getting around impermanence

With shaky hands and weak gripping fingers
taking up the paper's challenge he wrote those words
"I am..."
in an instant Truth slayed him

Subsumed into the primal substance
a thief no more
unconcerned at last with being
forgotten