In an age of cheap poets and marketplace philosophers

In an age of cheap poets and marketplace philosophers, When words intertwine beautifully but lack depth, My contemporaries have already given me the greatest reward, Their indifference, their silence, heavy like a spider’s web. In a world where applause is the echo of an illusion, Rise those who believe themselves original, For they have an audience that claps but does not understand, And they do not know that true poets live only posthumously. I wish to be a shadow in the book of time, To write my words on dead leaves, carried by the wind, Melancholy as my ink, and my heart as the paper, To tell my stories in a stream of thoughts. For what does it mean to be alive, if not to be forgotten? To leave only a sad echo and a lost smile, In a world of those who have eyes but do not see, In a mechanical universe, where souls are mere cogs. But perhaps one day, when silence will sing, My words will bloom in the light of dusk, And they will tell the story of those who were, Those who wrote silence, while the world screamed.