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?