If you love the poets now
after they are dead
and put to sleep in their graves
wearing suits of soil
and gowns of earth
then why, pray tell
did they wear rags
and lie alone
with books in heads left unread
and ink stains on slender fingers

If you love the poets now
why do they fear living in an apartment
because someone might hear them screaming
or sobbing
it can be hard to tell
and harder still to save them
and ti is hardest of all to be screaming and have no one listen
or to call the cops on the one who is breaking nothing
but their own heart
and that ugly vase
that they never liked in the first place

If you love the poets now
why do so many reel back hurting
fearing wether or not they are deserving
of praise, or food, or sleep, or laugh lines
they are not sure they will ever get

If you love the poets now
why do they lie starving in foxholes they dug themselves
or in dead end jobs that **** them slowly
or ravaged by needles and color
in some endless hope that they might be heard
and understood
and that they might finally
see what they see with their eyes
and not just their hearts

Love them now
for they know they are dying
kiss their lips
for they know they can not speak the truth
Hold their hands
for their language is in their fingers
all that they do they do for you.