The Poem and It's Poet

There lived a humble poet, a connoisseur of words
who saw it fit to tell the tale of trees, and beasts, and birds
he had a faithful pen and a knack for words just right
to describe what he saw with an honest man's insight

He and his pen each, quite happy with themselves
both composers in their own, attributes to the shelves
labored now with scrolls, and pages from the years
latticed with base phrases from the old man's eyes and ears

Till one day when he settled, and finished his last poem
a tale quite bland and empty, a tale he called his own
As long as it was witty, with the tendencies of life
and of course it had some rough spots, the passing times of strife

He wrote the last few stanzas before the evening's dawn
and settle off to dreamland with a slightly muffled yawn
The man himself quite pleased, with his most recent poem
saw he had no partner and took the poem as his own

The man and his new love grew fond as time went by
closer to each other than even you and I
and many days would catch him rereading with a sigh,
lost within his thoughts, mindless of the time

Alas time has no boundaries, no prejudice at all
to whom it leaves unscathed, and who will take the fall
The man grew ill or old, as humans oft are apt
The man passed through the sands by which the poem had been trapped

The words remained the same as the old man's mind decayed
and in the place of fondness, the man now felt betrayed
No more was it the story of his accomplishments and feats
but rather now just lies, seemingly just deceits

In madness by the fireplace, driven by his pain 
collapsed upon the floor, one hand within the flame
The man then found his grave and left this mortal Earth
his words lost in the harlots arms, cuddled in the hearth