Dead Poet Poem by ERNEST CLARY

The stone was weathered
I couldnt read the name
still people gathered
just the same

though the name couldnt be read
I seen a poem on the back that said-

Laying under this stone
down in the ground
I'm here all alone
under this mound

at my head is my stone
a vase for flowers to stock
my name will be forever known
etched in the rock

though I'm just bones
people come to see
I hear their moans
standing over me

they bring me flowers and such
for their love to show
say they love me much
then they go

they tell me things
they never said before
the joy it brings
to me forevermore

then I realized it was me
people were coming to see
a thousand years past
after reading my poems, at last