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The Living and Dead in 2024
Ye old poets, cause my demise.
My fingers release no signature.
Foolishly, in foolish times,
used to instant gratification,
I want to leave a comment.
Ye old poets, what you do to me;
get under my skin; your lips move
with vicarious words - you have a way
with them, (and because your dead to me)
I can say…with me.
Ye ole Frost, and Burroughs too,
paint the most amazing images,
unsheathing the natural in ways
that Consume me. You slay me.
I’m bound in your grasp, my lips alive,
my eyes on your poetic body,
as I breathe out the bequeathed
of ye old poets, dead.
Copyright ©
Kim Rodrigues
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