End of Poetry

The End of Poetry I refuse, refuse to write anymore my head is a winter turnip you can slice fry and pretend it is schnitzel served with spinach and mashed potatoes, all of them are veggies that refuse to be eaten but have little choice but to surrender at the motto of “Let us try this once more.” Dreams are the last to go, she was sleeping and dying woke up and said she had a funny dream she told me about it delightful memories she didn`t have a happy childhood and a pony, touched my deeply. Two hours later she died in the middle of another dream and stark reality sat in a corner crying. Pallid faces took her away as I repeated to myself, I refuse to believe what have occurred, reality had lost its rudder. I accepted the avoidable opened a door and was hit by a storm full of spiteful and hateful thoughts, but I refuse to write about that.