I am a dead poet
and I am scared.
Down below there, I see a panel
of some learned friends and foes.
In their minds they hold a few tools
some called ‘literary device’.
My verses on the table lie,
They cut and pierce and wound
and then lay my words to rest.
Rip me off my poetic talent
And think their interpretation the best!
I sit and pray here, in the heavens above;
“God! If only they could peep into my tender heart,
And care to know the truth that I concealed with my art!”