don’t fear dead poems

no,
I don't fear dead poems
because they were once alive.
they live in tears,
and rebirth in ashes.
they swallowed pride
and feared not much,
in eternity's mysterious path,
except the temptation
of losing what was built
beneath a black velvet sky
fuelled with hopes and dreams
and whatever we can hope for.
hope's not gone,
hope's survived in the ashes
of wisdom and in the meltdown
of ages, and ages to come.
fear was no more than foolish pride
beneath a sadness cloak mantle
and jewels around a heaven
that finished before even started.
so, what I see
is the intention to proceed
what I don't find pleasing,
or even unpleasant.
so, once upon a time,
a shinning star revealed
o poem for a dead poem
that finished
when the dead one has started
and it's intend was to perish
before the dead one awakes.
and, please, forgive me
if these letter transmit
what they don't intend
but, at least, the intend
and transmit something,
ethereal, perhaps, but something.
what does the world mean to you?
maybe it’s a dead poem!