◊☆☼☆◊ 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 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 ®
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