◊☆☼☆◊ The Poets Are Dead ◊☆☼☆◊

The Poets are dead with quills of ink,

Searching for words to perfectly sync

Flooded with verses that come alive,

From their hearts is where they derive

The Poets are dead - their words so cliché,

With worded works of art called so passé

Their souls bleed images of beautiful love,

Graciously gifted from Heaven above

The Poets are dead - their message long lost,

Sadly misquoted, ignored and tossed

Their dreams of inspirations now void,

Ah, such sweet words terribly destroyed

The Poets are dead with missing praise,
Their long, lost art - now simply decays
Vanished is the romantic of yesteryear
And wondrous beauty we used to revere

The Poets are dead as well as their lore,

No more are readers needing more

Their use of imagery, love and desire,

Now lay upon a funeral pyre

The Poets are dead ....

O’ so they say

I beg to differ,

I say “Nay”

Alive tomorrow,

Alive today,

The Poets ….

Won't wither away

© Tim Mabry ®