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.

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