Where Souls Recline

Poetry dead; is
Lifted on grandeur to heady heights.

Untaught, hidden in dusted halls, where hallowed words are uttered
Do you hear mutters?
And a holy hush refrain.
It is prayer, not fiction. Not willing outreach in creative burst
For poets are dead, but its religion lives.

On the day it grew hazed, it was clouded,
You held sticks, sat upon a shore - wished for days
When ink-to-paper flew easily
Held minds actions and was not alone.

Yet, how are you alone? Patient flutter -
Sun, air, birds trees shade - ah, in shade
She is air, tickle
Wind dances light and in poetic glance does entertain

The day is alive; the verse rests undisturbed
On high peaks and eight leagues under.