Set in black Ink

I have written an entire book of poetry
That will probably never reach the light of day,
Its full of useless sentiment, remorse
And words that have gone astray

I shall keep this book under lock and key
Until the day I draw my last breathe
And someone who cares will sit next to me
And will read the pages on which I've wept

For there is something melancholy
Something intrepid between its covers
It will pronounce its fruitless teachings
And passions in vivid colours.

And in my last earthly moments
I will run a finger through their hair
Softly grasp their sweaty hands
Close my eyes and whisper "I cared."

Then they'll turn the final page
Where written in black pen
Rest the only words that mean a thing
A fearless and bold "The End."