Socrates had disciples 

Who recorded the events

Of his last days,

The things he said and did

The day before he drank the hemlock,

And the day of----

As he wrote the first and only song

He'd ever written,

They wrote down his death sentences,

His death paragraph.

And I have written down the beauty, 

The holiness of your last day,

How you told me that you loved me,

How you apologized for worrying me.

You said I was the best thing

That ever happened to you.

You said that was always 

The way you wanted to go,

With a smile on your face.

Your sweeeet face-----

They will blame me for your passing,

And so mine will be connected.

I will preserve what I can to that day,

Of my self,

And the heavy words

Will churn out heavily,

And drop onto the assembly line

Of death sentences.

But who will come and put them together,

Arrange them into my death paragraph,

As I have tried to assemble yours?

I will write to you from prison.

From my cell on death row,

All my words will come together 

To form a death sentence,

Or even a death paragraph.

-jenn