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.
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