Dead Poets

He took his leave of this world with the truth on his lips while soaking in that warm bath in Paris where he had flown to pursue a new path having been forced to publish his poetry himself because that sort of thing doesn’t rake in the big bucks For all their smarm and ego stroking those suave men in designer suits and silk ties stop caring about you (they never really did) when you’re no longer bringing home the bacon to fry greasing their bottomless pockets by catering to popular taste even if it's tripe (as it usually is) turning their attention to the next big name when you tire of the game and let it go to watch the wheels spin like Lennon Poets aren’t appreciated until after they’re dead Maybe it’s the romantic mystery of not being able to ask what they meant by a certain sonnet or a single line searching for clues in fragmented stories of a life that no one gave a damn about before they breathed their last like mine