All the writers in this book are dead now,
lucky for them they don't have to worry
lifting the weight of words to measure light
to write poems nobody reads, the prow
honors the sailors on the ship, the spine
excites the reader, We're in No Hurry,
worked out before everyone passed, the bright
readers understand everyone will die,
in time even I will move on, that's fine,
to read or write about this life, to tell
entertaining stories to capture hearts,
readers seek writers who sit in a well,
storytellers who write in fits and starts,
in anthologies, we see through the lie,
nobody cares when we're already dead,
to publish or perish doesn't matter,
how many readers of poetry care
if they get to meet the authors, the head
sinks after meeting our heroes, our friends
believe we're as mad as the Mad Hatter,
only they don't know about the Grey Hare,
or was it, the White Rabbit, and Alice
kissed Wonderland goodbye, every life ends
as remarkably as it starts, writers,
readers aren't usually basketball stars,
even if boxers, MMA fighters
decided to write poetry, the bars
enjoy their work more than writers, the price:
arduous climbs up steep slopes offer
death-defying mountain climbers, we read
now and again in newspapers, the greed
of sports and politics, empty coffer
we fill with dreams unfulfilled, must I plead?
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