Flame of Dead Poets

 

I am a moth drawn by the flame

of dead poets, the place of inky spirits

match struck with light time cannot extinguish.

Even the dusted shelves hold a glow,

a place where Poe’s raven is a flashlight

into the darkness of a heart tortured by grief.

Amongst the perfume of frail paper

Emily’s feather of hope comforts,

brings faith to the soul what today cages

tomorrow can set free. 

With wings pressed into pages I hear

poets question, test the binding of mortality

with words that bring life to generations

beyond the demise of their pens.

The resurrection of verses into new eyes

is the eternal gift of poetry…Calendars drop

their wearied days, but cannot deter

the eclipse of moths who hunger for illumination. 

©Susie Clevenger 2023

The Sunday Muse #243

Note: a group of moths is called an eclipse.