Here I lay it down at last
a pen in casket
and a lonely past

Here we gather
let us mourn
Poets aren't made
but born

While alive they drink and stew
over and under life
until life is through

They give us more
than they'd like us to see
and more than we actually adore
until the day they die

So pack up your ink and quill
and set aside your simple will

Realize what you knew inside
that when your poet's heart was born
it had already died