If there is one left to cry,
“horseman pass me by.”
Trojan men painted clones,
equestrian power, chiseled stone.
“Oh, steed,” the poets cry,
witness to the final sigh.
The pen, the ride, united quest,
invites you near as their guest.
But, when the final blow does come,
please leave in open run.
And I will in spirit lope to see,
all the poets following me.
© CMM 2011