The Writer

by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2021

Poetry

When I should die, think only this of me:

That there’s some weathered notebook tucked away

Behind the dusty novels. My childhood reads

These words—these words my childhood shapes

From airy nothing into lines and scenes.

With ballpoint tip to page, with blue ink running dry,

I scratch and dot my i’s and cross my t’s,

Letters becoming words, words brought to life.

And think, these stories, inscribed on every page—

Reflections of my mind, blurred photographs—

Implore to be preserved eternally.

So let my work’s life last beyond my age,

Let it be more than just my epitaph—

My fount of youth, my immortality.