The Death Of Poetry

The death of poetry image

The poet’s scratching turns to chaos
His heartache isn’t told
The poet’s work was once a pillar
Now it rots with mold
A poem is not which only seems
A poem is bliss which truly means

“Wash me in the mountain ribbons
Lace my heart with purest streams”
So might go a sage’s verse
Who fastens realness to his dreams

When fell this fortress? By whose hand
Did its tender body wither dry?
None could take it from without
Its own have made it die

Its own have made it die
Its own can make it rise
When will poets cease to falter?
When will they realize?
A poem is not which only seems
A poem is bliss which truly means

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