Poetry's Demise
Hollow stylus marks no time
No ink rains on the page.
Rhythm soon abandons rhyme
With gracious lack of rage.
Fear stands still beside herself
Not knowing what to do.
Sorrow weeps while Love curls up
And coughs a time or two.
Glory yawns to view the dead,
Harps are bathed in stridence.
Valor pulls the sheet o’erhead,
Choirs regale with silence.
Wonder wanders lost, alone;
Unable to believe.
Stanzas wail their final tone
With no one left to grieve.
What a sad day to contemplate. May it never be!
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Thanks for reading, FF&F. You're ever hopeful.
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I think your poetry will live on & on......
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Thank you, Ms. Zola, You're too kind.
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Yes, this made me sad. Next you'll be telling me that the fat guy down at the mall doesn't work for Santa.
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Oh no, he works for Santa...but he's not really fat.
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Very nicely done, but sad. I really think though that neither poet nor poetry knows a threat from time or mortality.
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Thank you, Montucky. Here's to hoping you're right.
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Say it ain't so!
Nicely done, Pinhole.
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"It ain't so."
Thanks.
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