Poets Die In Hot Cars

Poets die in hot cars;

While doggerels lay exhausted in the heat of the midday sun

Lacking fluid and needing the shadow

Of Autum-te-dum leaves.

The sweat of a writer’s brow trickles between lashes

And splashes of colour lighten up an otherwise dull shade of grey.

Old tomes lie, unread, unnoticed and largely unwanted
when minute devices carry their weight lightly
Politely giving up their words at the press of a button
Although some would think of Shakespeare as Lamb dressed up like Milton.
Or Brie compared to Stilton.

Poems die in a bright non-blaze of apathy
Lounging in cupboards and drawers; spouting off about charges and wars
When all the people want is a quick laugh

Then another

Without too much bother
“Brother, can you spare the time to read a book?”
“A what?”
And so it goes
Where it will end
Nobody knows.
The written word is fading and blurred
And will be long forgotten
When all things have occurred
That are happening now.
Learning to read?
What is the need?

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