Dead Poets
Outside the night was filled with stars,
a sky full of dead poets
if van Gogh is to be believed.
But he was inside now
and all he remembered
was the red curtain
coming down over his eyes.
Red first and then black.
So black it turned everything black.
They told him that
he had died
for a few seconds,
or was it a few minutes.
Then he was back
looking out
on the starry night.
He wondered how long it took
for a dead poet to become a star.
Was a few seconds,
or even a few minutes,
sufficient.
And now,
now that he was back,
was he still shining
undead, living
up there with all the dead poets.
Unless the raising of the curtain
put out his light.
a sky full of dead poets
if van Gogh is to be believed.
But he was inside now
and all he remembered
was the red curtain
coming down over his eyes.
Red first and then black.
So black it turned everything black.
They told him that
he had died
for a few seconds,
or was it a few minutes.
Then he was back
looking out
on the starry night.
He wondered how long it took
for a dead poet to become a star.
Was a few seconds,
or even a few minutes,
sufficient.
And now,
now that he was back,
was he still shining
undead, living
up there with all the dead poets.
Unless the raising of the curtain
put out his light.
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