I Still Will Write

A writer is a writer even after this life.
I wrote on the first page of my life,
A poem about the grumpy midwife,
In whose hands I had come to birth,
And momma had to endure her wrath.

I wrote about my first day in school,
When papa said I need to go study and be a useful tool,
How I cried pleading with him not to go,
Yet in me a winner he saw,
Thus he said No.

I wrote about my teenage years,
All my longings, frustrations and fears,
My success story I put in bold,
My failures I put in fold.

I wrote about my first love,
Who taught me how to love when I was naive,
My feelings for him I put in paper,
But later evaporated like vapor.

I wrote about my first job,
And a funny story about an evil comb,
That followed an old witch to her tomb,
After she was stoned to death by a mob.

I wrote about my wedding day;
When those solemn vows I did say,
And promised faithfulness till death lay us asunder,
When one of us would lie six feet under.

I wrote about my death,
That day I took my last breath,
As my body lost its strength,
I smiled, for in Christ I had banked my spiritual wealth,
While still on earth.

The Angels are now beckoning,
For I have come to the day of reckoning,
I still will write,
Of this day, when evil deeds are separated with light.
Published: 8/22/2016
Bouquets and Brickbats