We sit, sharing your scotch and soul
renouncing the new, none nobility who
reside down the hall.
You colour me a story, about art reflecting life.
Where contrived painters, daub
their disjointed views, onto canvas’s
pinned to fragile walls of hope and hate.
Maybe I say.
But what about the unnoticed poets, who freed
their private thoughts
in black and white, pressed
between the pages new.
Works, where few,
seldom seem to go these days
until the writers been buried, deep
and in debt.
Then, up they rise
the new age, poetic apostle – airing
all those long faded, dusty words.
Bringing home to them, some posthumous
unheard of, literary award.
Well then, you smile.
It would seem that death does
have some rewards – so please before
you leave, my dear:
Pass me, my best poets pen…