It's Still Life

Of Poets Dead and Gone

while I slept in my chair,
my dream, waking my horse,

although I’ve none
and never will, nevertheless,

it woke, and

we rode down a rocky lane
where stood the souls
of poets dead; and gone,

and one who seemed of marble,
who stood as any might alive —
rain falling thick
and clinging to her face it did,

and she leaned against
the grey church wall and said,

“Wake up — your minute of fame is nearly done, love.”

---

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.