Where have all tne beauiful words gone?
The skipping rhythms,
Tangled in luscious forms,
That painted movies in our minds.
And does it matter?
If all that left is,
Weary eyed concrete spirits.
Slobbering over free verse confessions.
And what of us ?
Are we just a cliche?
A product of poetry stagnation.
Cowards who never hold anyone to account.
What child can recite a modern poetry line?
Is there a purpose to all this scribbling?
Free expression turns to vapour,
Under the heat of a questioning mind.
Maybe today is poetry's pompey?
Copyright © paul martin | Year Posted 2017