Poetic Injustice

I have often wondered
in this land of nowhere
where do all the poets lay
No one reads what they write
no one cares if they live or die
where do they go
for their thoughts are forever astray
When would our April be
when would people walk past my words
when would they listen to the unheard
I wish for a day when I don’t have to pay
the price to be unworthy of a read
I wish for the day they read me like I write
and not just shrug and walk away
Where would a poet lie
but on his grave 
for they chose to hear him sing
Not read his written word
Not one remembers the  book that lay
on dusty shelves that held his dream
Not one to read the parts of his soul
Where would the poets go
in their mind’s relentless dark
where would the void be full
Where would the poets go
I know not
for in their rhyme and lack of reason
they are forever in hell. 

3 thoughts on “Poetic Injustice

  1. The day of the poet is gone, friend
    No longer shall the bard be praised
    For this time, it is our end.
    No longer shall we be raised.

    These words of ours, the poets,
    I'm afraid all shall be lost.

    Take heart in the moments where unseen words,
    Not broken hearts, shall be the only cost.

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