THE SLEEPING POETS

Who dare awake the quiet poets?
In a silent saintly Abbey, nonchalant
To bleed words on paper justly blunt
A mindful vigil in times of wild revolt
A revolutionary vault locked as bolt
That gives a stern jolt to man of salt
Who turn the earth into war assault
The poets are not dead, but recline
They will all sleep, none will decline
A realist expressionist, in neon-time
In awareness the ink is black mime
Frankly spoken like Frank pen a sin
Who’s spilling words are a lock-pin
That gives a stern jolt to man of salt
Who turn the earth into war assault
Taught and caught in courts of fault
Who dare awake the quiet poets?
In a silent saintly Abbey, nonchalant
To bleed words on paper justly blunt
In a society sodden in none solvency
The running sort, with none clemency
Reigning sour words to souls beaten
The sleeping poets’ words straighten
A mindful vigil in times of wild revolt
The poets are not dead, but in a vault

By Linda Sakazi Thwala 
Linda Sakazi Thwala