I saw a man in a graveyard-
writing a sonnet-
die by his wife’s tomb… die
by her stone.
They call him a poet,
call it
ironic;
but ya know… it’s probably just
his time to go.
He wrote her a poem,
wrote her a sonnet
in the middle of June…
feeling alone.
I was reading his poem,
nothing was on it
What he was feeling… we’ll
never know.
Still while reading his poem,
reading his sonnet,
[A eulogy terse,
but I read it slow]
perhaps nothing he felt,
so nothing was on it…
as his only verse
had died long ago.