The poet, pathetically
Attempting to retrieve the words
He spilled onto our minds.
Useless they say,
So they shall not have them.
Not today, not never.
Not running through your veins
The words, are they not?
They could not.
For such thing, does not happen
Not on these days,
No longer happens.
I, I did try, but I was young
And such a naïve girl.
I would never have guessed.
Words are no longer
A reason to live,
And poems no longer life.
And so, dies the poet,
Along with his children
As it should be.
A.R. Brixton
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-23/
