For The Name Of A Simple Poet

If my simple poetry is to be accepted by my peers
it must be soon, for surely my life's extinction nears.
It is not from melancholy or self sorrow that I speak,
more simply though that time and death's truth will peak.
Making me breathless once too often in my nightly sleep,
when the restless reaper reminds us our fate cannot keep.
As well they knew, those who have written in the past
writing in their genius writings, earth life must be cast.
But what of me? I cannot see past the quickening hour,
I pray, for I fear my thoughts, that I am not sickly sour.
I spoke of fate before, perhaps that is the answer sought
that we cannot alter that in which we are fatally caught.
Is death the ultimate consciousness for our ultimate sin
of discovering thought, sidestepping natural evolution?
Should I meekly, without resolve, accept the deafness
to my thoughts, of which my uneducated words express?
Am I to be discovered, cleverly, in a hundred years or so
when the cycle turns and my poetry takes on a stylish glow?
I of the great Celtic races of the north cannot lay me down
without a fight, yet I ask not to be given poetry's top crown.
In my exasperation I ask my peers to simply accept that
time I fear runs out for me to be named simply, a poet!

sonofadam