The Dead Poets of Society

The Dead Poets of Society

They spoke in the quiet of empty halls

words meant for those who still dream

for the restless who cannot sleep

Books held their secrets in tired pages

ink faded but never gone

their voices warm as a fire’s last glow

We stood on desks to see the world differently

tore pages from books that told us what to think

learned that silence can be a kind of death

and breath was meant for more than obeying

Some called us dreamers

others called us trouble

we called ourselves alive

because the ground will have us soon enough

I walk among their memories

the air heavy with truth

not the kind you can fold into paper

but the kind that follows you home

The dead poets are not gone

they are in the rise of our laughter

the rush of words too wild to hold back

and in every heart that dares to speak