What happens to our poems when we die?

They become a carcass for the ravens to feed on
or a long forgotten loner on the streets of kolkata
may be an origami at the corner of the table that was often ignored
a smile at the corner of a poor man's lips that's often overlooked

the verses take a walk down the memory lane
to the time when they were born
When the sheet smelt of fresh ink
murmured the chorus in symphony

some of them were born from a deceased mind
some were the flowers over a worn out soil
quite a few were a young child's dreams
the ones that were always undercover were about his ladylove

the wind and dust caressed the mind and soul
rustled like a juvenile's swaying skirt
but it did not want to be ridiculed and torn apart
but it was soon yanked into the void

Do they squabble over their master's loss?
do they cry silently and read themselves out as loudly as they can?
or are they happy to be lost travellers like unfettered holy spirits in the hills
What happens to our poems when we die?