We are words written on scribbled lines
Pages filled with rhymes
We are dust filled pages
remediation for the radiation
of a thousand aging minds
We, the confines, of musty shelves
Speak slowly
shout loudly
Of rhetorical rapping's rhythm rippling across inter city's web streets, country lanes and window pains
Systemically musing under street lights by vending machines
We are the Dead Poets
we write of crying tears that fall from our dry eyes,
of women weeping and of haunting nights
We speak only in words of rhythm
But now we sit on your book shelves
Collecting dust as we roll in graves
We are the dead poets
listen to the pages
and here us say
