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Dead Poets

dead poets; old cars
junked in heaps
in front of
abandoned houses...

empty mailboxes
rusting to the
ground...

empty swings creaking
in the late evening breeze;
a bottle of wine,
half-empty,
moans in the shadows.

the fields have been picked,
nothing left, but sweat stained dirt....
even the embers have grown cold,
and the pot is empty.

the sounds and smells of living
linger by unmarked stones...
dead poets; old cars...
running on empty!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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