Dead Poets... In The Night Poem by Eric Cockrell

dead poets visit me in the night....
we walk the darkened hollow streets.
talking softly, or not at all....

listening to the sounds of darkness.
doors closed, curtains pulled;
those who can, sleep....

and lovers wrapped inside each other
talk in a language known only by gods.
while the broken ones stumble by,

the sound of their weeping heavy,
and cold as the night....
clouds race across the moon

leaving scars on the homeless and hungry.
young women cry out giving birth
to the screech of the owl....

churches stand empty and sterile.
the suicides and the penitents
go about their business quickly.

we stand on the corner of doubt and hope,
brothers and sisters in arms.
raise the last bottle, light a smoke....

and wait, shivering, for the endless dawn!