Glows

What can they tell me? What will they reveal- voices of the poets dead and dying? So I spin, a brake-less wheel to catch the fallen phrases each a testament to living when living could be praised. If I could publish dead men's rhymes, translate dreams of all whose dreams have gone, would life be beautiful or ghastly details of their crimes? This one writes of worms and dirt, another of the cold, dark night; see how different light becomes when stolen from the writer's eye? Deep into the ground the hearts and prayers of poets grow, yet what they left behind while living glows and glows.