The Truth About Us Poets
Between then,
and nowhere
in this distant harmony...
We poets,
are forgotten words.
Alive,
only in waiting,
Haunting and curious
Sinking down by ancient greetings...
We speak,
a language of old.
Forgotten by age
and long replaced.
As we have become,
ghosts of twilight-
Evading time
only by weaving
our own souls
into tapestry's,
by ink and blood
As we persist,
through eons
with saturated wisdom
dripping onto
and delving deep
into each and every
new civilization
We revive,
for a flicker
then we reside
forgotten once more.
As we are buried deep
by emerging poets,
who then repeat
each cycle.