Old and young

                         Old and young

                               

Do old poets write better poems than young ones
And is it because they have more years in their pockets...
Or a grey old beard to stroke!
Or maybe because they've known
the vacant feelings wrapped in little giftboxes,
ones that escape like the scent in the box 
that begins as a sweet fragrance
But holds nothing more than
 your room dust and the laundry smell
Once it has been there for long...


Or is it because
their old heart  belongs to the past
And in their poems they can pour in bits of it,
People and acquaintances wiped into ashes, 
And all that stays
is only a rhyme of the words...
That still clings on to those old grey cells
That has outlived them all!

Or perhaps the present 
is what ripens a poet's soul
The sentiments haven't collected a layer of dust
And are plucked while there's still that throb in the pulse 
And that creative rush...

And either way,
whoever writes a better poem
Is a futile thought
For haven't you known
Nobody reads these poems
That are only good to be left 
as fragments of somebody's soul..
Old or young,
It's all the same...

But I'd like to think they stay around
For no one to see or know
But unable to be destroyed or restored,
They'll turn into dust...and stay...and stay...and just stay...
For they refuse to be alone.