Dead Poets

The best poets lived a hundred years ago— They ate fruits from trees of words, And drank from lakes of structure. They had bones made from song And passion; they were born to write Lyrics of joy and self-destruction: Every sentence contained a piece of their soul. The best poets lived a hundred years ago— Who still had vines of inspiration; Who saw all the little things in life From the panes of stained-glass windows. The windows of now are dirty and cracked; There are no trees, or lakes, or vines. The best poets lived a hundred years ago, Who are better dead than alive.