Immortal Ego

[Leanne]

Dead poet sighs
and the live ones jump
into the thighs
of inane worship

celebrating
he who has come before
hand on versified organ
made blind by the splash of creation

you have never heard
the cries lost to the ages
nor noticed the faults and frailties
in which great poetry dwells

seeing only the shining star
that lights the paper
wiping posterity’s arse
for another set of lips

you seem surprised
that your heroes, far from Styx-dipped
were largely heel
and deny them mortality
by tying them to yardsticks

in your eyes
he who writes in that shadow
can never become the sun

inadequacy is the coin
with which you buy your excuses

and wither