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Dead Poets
We are all
Destined to be
Dead poets
In this earthly
Go round,
One or two
Read,
Most forgotten
Never read at all,
Pictures pulled
Down
From the wall,
Those in albums
Faded, sticky,
CD’s unreadable,
Web Pages
Wandering that zone
Of no street names
No addresses,
Now and then
Like curious graveyard
Lookers brushing
Of a stone,
A few note the
Names on pages,
Checking genealogy,
Whatever your form
Be writing,
The ink dries quickly
In the pen.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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