Dead Poem Society

One day I found a poem,
It was sleeping in its bed
I tried my best to wake it up,
But it turned out it was dead.

I stopped a while think on it,
And thoughts, they wouldn't go:
Do poems think about their lives,
And how the hell I'd tell?

I wondered where do poems go,
When they have passed away
Seems they don't go anywhere;
It seems they're here to stay.

It didn't take me long from there,
To join up all these thoughts.
The poem hadn't died, of course,
It lives on like a force.