Rising From Death Poem by Bill Cantrell

Going through my graveyard of poems
All tombstones, void of flowers or names
Silverfish and bookworms pay homage night and day
When inspiration visits, she grants just a few words,
yes, she attaches wings to them, and away they fly
Countless ones I have given life,
some I have handed over as the stork delivers to friends,
I took great delight in warming hearts,
I entrusted to them my children
Is it truth, that when a poet dies from his lack of inspiration,
his children also come to their end?
Deep sleep strikes my eyes,
A dream unlike all others opens its gates
Words with wings flying everywhere,
Thousands perched upon majestic clouds
At a total loss of words, my tongue came to life

Who is this taking my hand?
She leads me to a stream as straight as perfection
Who are you and why have you brought me here?
She led me to the heart of the stream, then vanished
I peered into the stream, my children were there,
All very well, gathering around me, in a circle holding hands
I rejoiced greatly, they pointed to the other side,
on the bank were watchers, all with pens
Their ink was times stream, they recording everything, in life as well as death
Every laugh, every tear, smile and breath
Suddenly, she appeared, taking me back
" I never left you, my friend
The few words I would give you?
You put wings on them, not I,
A poem is meant to be a new day of life,
a new night for romance"
I got her point, now where is my pen,
I need more children to accompany all those rising from their graves