Where old poets go
WHERE OLD POETS GO
When the white moon settles in the southern sky
and loves leaves fall gently and dead upon the ancient Earth,
Ivory white pedestals will spring up in the fields and open places,
at night elvish creatures will come to stand upon them
and search the heavens with large and alien eyes.
These are the old poets, ghostly and motionless mostly
they cock distended ears to the distant music of unseen spheres.
The words they choose connect a thousand worlds, and yet
rarely reach the surface of any, and can only be found
in faded volumes on dusty shelves in dingy bookstores
on the corner, where you turn towards the factory side of town.
From away and beyond the guarded gates of Shangri La
they stitch and weld the world with words and hopes and dreams
formed from the fires of vast creation and hammered home to fragile life
then cast upon us as beams of light that slip between our frozen fingers
and shatter, leaving us gazing up from below.
And now you know gentle reader,
when the elders are not here to hear you,
where it is old poets go.
"Life is fiction. Write it well.
Last edited by JP_Inkswell; 06-14-2016 at 11:56 AM..