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.]