Are The Poets Dead Poem by Randy McClave

Who would had led
If all the poets were dead,
When I heard the bell's chime
I did not hear a rhyme,
Someone needed to give power
Back to the love of the flower,
And to the sound of the wind
Does it start, why does it end,
Through suffering or delight
No one wanted to write,
No one wanted to show them
By reciting their own poem.

The leaves fell softly to the ground
Sadly, I did not hear a sound,
Where was that cunning creation
That could stir a soul even a nation,
For the nature of speech and song
Which everyone could recite along,
Where were those powerful words
That ran wild like animal herds,
Words to arouse the lost emotions
Beauty, that creates forever devotions,
I listened, and it was not heard
No one wrote, or recited a word.

I waited, and I waited to hear
For the sadness, wonder or tear,
Had all poets truly vacated
No words or poems were created,
Inspiration was still everywhere
And to it, we are its heir,
Then I walked into a saddened graveyard
Asking, where was the bard;
Mankind was born from a pen
Words gave him sin,
It is mankind's obligation and duty
To write, about his own beauty.

Randy L. McClave