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Poem

Where do we poets go?
Hiding in the shadows of small towns and big cities,
Where do we poets go?
Spilling our hearts out onto paper for the world to see,
Where do we poets go?
When we no longer hold the pen with pride,

I’d like to believe we live on,
in ripped page corners and whispers of ‘where should I start?’
I’d like to believe we live where our imagination is needed,

Creativity welcoming us with open arms,
a smile for his lucky few,
his creative wonderers and idealists;
us who question the very fabric mother nature sewed,
us who like to scribble on her walls,
us who pinned our work up on her fridge,

Wouldn't it be lovely,
to be remembered for the words we never spoke,
the names we never uttered or even went by,
the streets and shadows we hid in?

Where do we poets go?
Because we certainly don’t die.


Wednesday 25 November 2020

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