The Flames Of Cold Comfort Poem by Paul Brookes

again the house of cards is blown down.
its careful construction desecrated,
dreams and wishes can't hold it together.
books lie unopened does that mean they are dead?
does the tarot tell secrets or is it superstition.
a poem not read dies or does it?
shelves lined with dusty tomes burned in Alexandria.

stories painted in caves where the light never enters
neolithic dreams of bison and deer in ochre red and yellow.
because we cannot see these dreamscapes
do they cease to exist dying with the painter?

is art for arts sake, in the end it matters not,
eventually dreams do die, card houses fall,
libraries burn and all that's left is silence.