Life's Blurb
I picked up a book
From the olive shelf
And swept my hand
On the dust jacket
To reveal a blurb
Etched in gold
That spoke fancies
Of stories and tales
The book had to hold
Between its bound covers
Front and back, Yet
Very little was told
Of the hero
Who was born
Between its pages
As they unfold
Very little was spoken
Of the life he lived
And how he changed
From the start till the end
So I pray to thee
That upon my grave
Where I’d rest
In peace one day
To the traveller who sweeps
His wrinkled hand
Over the blanket
Of leaves
Yellow and green
May much be told
Of dreams I’d seen
And those
That came alive
In the dash that holds
Which in gold
He would find
Between the year
I was born
And the one
In which I died