who reads the poets
in these days of dark inspiration
when the world rots to hell
giving us plenty to keep busy
as our pens plow lines
across field after field
of white space?

who reads the poets?
not so many that i can tell
only poets read the poets
keeping an eye on the competition
admiring the dead
while hating the living
those that write performance pieces
those that write dripping sacharine sweet
poems that belong on motivational posters;

who reads the poets,
we lesser children of greater sires
whose writing was first and foremost
hundreds of years ago
before the world got small
along with the minds within it?

who cares in the end
we write as those wounded
bleeding ourselves into your midst
we write as those breathing,
we write as those hearts beating –
it’s autonomic for the people.

we reads the poets?
it never mattered,
it never will.
we wander through the crowd
dropping gold to the ground
as all eyes stare up at the sun
lost in a poverty of blindness.