The Day That Poetry Died
Another sip of wine to douse the reality
The reality long coming is what we knew all along
All along the poets diminished, none to see the finish
The finish is unfinished, and the closure is unclosed.
Where did all the poets go?
The day that poetry died.
A sober thought washed over that struck the world
The world looked the other way, toward the new promise
New promises bleak, good men to look weak
Weak like the meek, meek like the dire.
Where did all the good men go?
The day that poetry died.
Weary now for yester-year hath past
Past on like the Dickenson’s and Patterson’s of old
Older growing old, the good days solemnly sold
Sold out for the masses drown the magic days of past
Where did all the good days go?
The day that poetry died.
Fatigued from waking slowly to the dark and blinding light
Light like mourning reflections from a lowered casket
Caskets hit me harder when the real world showed its face again
Again fatigue, again just like the faded light the world
Where did all the faces go?
The day that poetry died.
Tired we grow and drowsy we wander
Wander streets induced by the drug of the smug
Smug though we live by the present not forgive
Forgave what they forgot but no more quills avert the eyes
Where did all the old quills go?
The day that poetry died.
Spinning through intoxication of the mind
We mind what’s near and dear and get drunk off what we see
We see none of what the poets saw and write about our petty flaws
Flaws for what they’re worth are worth the nothingness we glimpse
Like a glimpse of time the good men knew where faces viewed
The views of all the quills that poets scribed the words fulfilled
Another sip of wine to fill what holes we can’t fulfill
Where did all the poets go?
The day that poetry died.
I came along too late
When was the day it met its fate?
Where did all the poets go?
The day that poetry died.
[Author's note: This is not so much about poetry as it is about society, just to clarify.]
Copyright © Herb Alyètte | Year Posted 2009
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