Poets Never Die (Sonnet)

People leave, most vanishing when they die, The preacher, the judge, and all begotten. They last until their flesh in graves rotten. And then family and friends often cry, But poets alone never say goodbye. Their bodies do leave, like all begotten But souls remain, in ink, not forgotten, Sung in song by mothers in lullaby. Through our children, the poet is born yet Again. He lives on in the sweet young minds. By the poets’ actions, his fate is set - His anger continues; or sweet words like pines, Given birth by him continues past death of the flesh… this is the life I make mine. Copyright 2009 © Leslie Alexis