aren't dead,
but what of the world around them?
Words let us live,
but instead
they only abandon
Paper littered casually all
over the floor
could've been read-
adored or
abhorred.
Either way,
inspiration is
dead on the floor---
suffocated, strangled, strangely ignored.
Satisfied, the poets
have taken what God
has given them,
and driven them, and
striven facades
Only for themselves
placed on the shelves---
selfishly, fearfully,
all for themselves.
And no, they're not dead, and
their poetry's read
alone in a room, they're forgiven.
With poetry piled up
under their bed,
the poet is always livin'
Poetic scrolls
found in their souls,
abandoning all they are bound in
Poetic souls were
given their scrolls,
so for them there is no toll...
but what of the world around them?