To water reputation

I am the best poet left.
No wonder,
all the good ones are dead.
I don’t feel pity.
These great men
Marvelous women
They burned, they starved, they froze, they suicided, they went mad.
They served their time.
And after all those rotten years
Beautiful Flowers still cover their graves.
Corpses
Long gone.
Conserved with their writings
in wooden boxes.
Lifeless bodies
With a preserved meaning.
Waiting for their words to vanish
To finally find some peace
And lay rest to their still living spirits.
When Poets die
They make room for reboiled teachings.
New Poets get born
in the middle of a life’s day.
And Poetry might be buried
next to the big names
Which shouldn’t mean
I can’t be
put in a shallow marked grave
with no name
beside them.