Dead Poets
I can not sleep, the voices cry out in the night, the words flood my head,
What do you want of me?
Do you seek my sanity or my body? I know who you are, yet your name escapes
Me, still you speak.
Words invade my mind, driving me to the brink, the verse you wish to deliver unto the World.
Until all will come and know it, the echoes of the dead poets, their final masterpiece
still to Write, thats why they speak throughout the night.
Yet I resist to close the door, that I would hear their calls no more, so to the paper I
am led, For the final words of the poetic dead.
Once satisfied with what is wrote, another poet's words are spoke,
Where does this end, when expressions fed? or when this poet too is dead?
At last the time for me to write, as from the grave I call at night, into your mind my
words will rush, and you'll be the one saying "poet hush"!
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