Posthumous Pen

We sit sharing your scotch and soul
renouncing the new, none
nobility who
reside down the hall.
You colour me a story,
about
art reflecting life where
contrived painters, daub
their disjointed views, onto
canvas's pinned to fragile walls
of hope and hate.

Maybe I say, but what about
 the unnoticed poets, who freed their
private thoughts in black and white,
 pressed between the pages new.
Works where few,
seldom seem to go these days, until
the writers been buried deep and in debt.

Then up they rise the new age,
poetic apostle
– airing all those long faded, dusty words.
Bringing home to them, some
posthumous unheard of literary award.  

Well then you smile
It would seem that death does
have some rewards – so please before
you leave, my dear

Pass
me, my best poets
pen...