Lyle Mays

In grief, I lost my darling wife,

And words remain to fill my days.

Fiction and verse instead of life

That is what's become of Lyle Mays.

Silly poems, even sonnets,

Led me on to writing stories.

The page with words strewn upon it

Takes the place of love's lost glories.

Friends advised me I should write books,

A massive task I found absurd.

Yet daunting as a novel looks

Begin with just a single word.

That word followed by another,

So makes the storytelling flow.

Grief profound without each other

Lessened with tears I must forego

Each book complete leads to the next.

From fame, there is no attraction.

The "why" I write is not complex;

To dampen grief, as distraction.