When All Words Die Poem by Bobbie Othigo

Once I sat to think
Of that day when my verses
Will no more rhyme,
That day my ideas won’t link,
And my lines cease in their dances;
That day when I’d sit to write
Only to sigh,
Having lost that special talent
That woos you to me so strong.
Of such thoughts I wouldn’t relent,
I knew to predict my death was wrong,
But if it’s true, why repent!
Inspiration fades to the skies,
I write best when my sadness is most high,
In that gloom I write of happier times,
Now in happiness I lack verses to write,
Or should I now write of doom and curses?
Do I no longer yearn?
Does my fire so lowly burn?
Yet I cannot live without a poem,
They are me, my home!
Maybe I can still write
Of hearts merry,
Maybe again write
Only of hearts weary;
Whatever be I will be true to you,
Compose them fresh as dew,
Be it after a month or dry year,
I will write with a heart most dear,
So long as this heart beats and lives,
I will write to heal, and praise our loves.