The Bequest...

His hand in the pocket of his coat,
He wandered, of all around aware;
He had a piece that he once wrote,
One he could not yet want to share.

He couldn't destroy that lone page,
Feed it to a frantic, famished flame,
For, the thought would again rage,
And to all his time, it'd lay sole claim. 

What he wrote he couldn't disown,
And it wouldn't yet be well received;
But, someday it'd have to be known,
That the thought had been conceived.

Soul and thought do find a new home,
And neither can be contained beneath;
To the ones who must after him roam,
The page as succor he hoped to bequeath.