Dead Poets

Dead Poets



You say you're bored,
well let me lick the fingertips

of the hand
flipping the pages of life-

to ensure there is nothing missed
pages not skipped.

For see-
Souls play hide and seek in the pages with corners left unlicked.

i am bound with hope-
in a country less a border

less a land, a petty government or gravity held atmosphere.

They all idle
in continuance of storylines,

one limit per body-
take a number,

a bridge to wear upon your back,
barcoded muse-

teacher,
hooker of thought creation;

The big bang that started it all
between forefinger and thumb.

screaming child
ink splatter of first word
from new pen.

On a shelf you wait
to be fingered by an unknowing new poet

a hundred years that precede you-
you hope for this,

an immortality of sorts-
Our books-

vined with passionate green like sticky new leaf bud-
careful collection of cryptic content

full of half truths
of yester

written for tomorrows';

Still creating more wholesome truth than out there in the so called real world-
poetry documented history best

some think-

documented how the history felt
about it,

and percieved it's era's.

hanging faces of flowers;
hung in noose by the hands of time.

The hands and legs,
and skulls,
and lips-
and spines and hips

that construct darkness and light- good and bad-
peace and ignorance

this shelled caravan of man;
all look essentially the same as one another once skinned and honed of flesh,

but by then it's too late for
taksey backsey's, isn't it?

Wisdoms' parting rubbish-

long belt snapped of timeline.

Nothingness is always-
unsure of worldly intent;

firm between the bridges
interwined thinking minds mingle and traverse

ink
and tree

sexed in a society too quick to see-
Sheafed supersession.

They're
too quick to be foolish

too quick to know better
too smart and to all knowing to need anymore knowledge-

Books are burnt moth wings
now,

with these dead intentions of ours
that are forging through the forgotton.

flipped past- pages with gilded edges
enticing no one.

They are too quick;
to slow

too high to walk on sky;
with the electric minds in dreams from yester-eve

too vast to tread man made time
with eyes looking rolled backward into mirror mind,

too in love with falsity
to part seas with the inner voices' pure kiss.

And too foolish to extinguish the white flames
of flowering

power, fear, vanity and greed-
diseased blooms

illness
engulfing these pages

damaged- burned to ash;
renanimated

and re-written,
poets will always be

alive.