When poets die
The wind changes direction
And nothingness is born
Because no one was there
To describe that thing
That sky
That leaf
The falling rain’
Words still exist
But there’s no one there to arrange them
In the way the makes even tyrants weep
When poets die
The world becomes less
Because through their eyes
We felt something that was buried deep within
A truth that was always known
But never heard aloud
When poets die
So does inspiration
A silence spreads throughout the land
But for a brief moment, we are not fed
Knowledge, laughter pain, joy or indifference
The story tells itself
But without the beauty of that rhythmic voice
That use to deliver it with such anger, kindness or despair
When poets die
The world dies
Just a little bit
By: Roland Clark
