So do the poets die
In huddles of garbage and looks of distrustThrough mockery of those who can only lie
They slowly crawl forwards, hear whispering past
And so do the poets die
Mad as they are still to play with the pen
When man exists only to sell and to buy
When they, not one other, are just those who can
And so do the poets die
With colours before their discerning pale eyes
With ears filled with an unshouted farewell cry
Thrown where everyone always wears a disguise
And so do the poets die
Where ease wins with dignity, beauty and pride
They look over shoulders at days long gone by
And join the mass no one is to divide
And so do the poets die
Poetry by Galahad
Read 559 times
Written on 2014-03-23 at 22:40
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Ivan R |
