Tired and not yet sixty he died in total obscurity

But poets never really die in obscurity

As their poems are always retained somewhere

Whether it be on a scrap of paper or in a scruffy book

They survive like unwanted graffiti on the damp walls of a latrine

I have found them as rhymes within rhymes hidden in popular songs

And have witnessed their theatre amongst the neon lights of great cities

Poets never die in obscurity and only now do I really understand the reasons why