Poetry is dead...

poetry has died a lonely death
overshadowed by mundane musings.
of words and rhythm there- a dearth
created by a dreary view of things.

sonnets do pale in comparison,
as lyrics fall in their stature.
ballads now lie forgotten
in the wake of poetry's departure.

a letter not written to love,
a song not sung from the heart,
all the romance that you could have
its now gone and forever lost.

Milton has died and Keats too.
Frost lies frozen in some corner.
wordsworth an anonymous forgotten hero
Emily and Plath were remembered never.

poetry's death i sit and lament
the magic's gone it seems, forever
if only literary fate would relent
and bring verse back on paper.

we've run out of words now

resorting to banal platitude.

time has finally taken a toll

poetry has failed our fortitude.

all our attempts are futile,
we just dont measure up ~
the passion is missing.a title
for dead poets society's come up.


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