whispers of poems in every generation
bodies may decay and become rotten
But the words hang in the cold fresh autumnal air.
The undead poet from their grave may save
it’s a battle of wills
selling poetry at bookshop tills.
softness and grace left in memories of one’s who knew them the most
although it’s his words live on like ghosts
a gnarled wizard staff
summons the poets craft
summoning words and stanzas
and questions rhymes and answers
Pulling them from sleepy faded ink
to relive times and make us think…