Poetry is dead?
It’s funeraled upon a pulpit’s laments
It does not breathe nor
have a pulp for writing lengths
Poetry is not reined in
its reignited freed
Sought after , goodbye so longs
the velvet upon leafs
Never mind in sentence
I wont babble on any punctuations
and we can wonder each proficiency
what’s the pretence
While the poem is stoned
By the poets implicitly
the death of a poem exotically
Would be impressively
while we stomped in stanza’s
A poem is 99 a line one perspectively
the poet is one in 99 introspectively
Poetry is dead?
poetry dying! is till better
than poetry extinguishing
The poets invention
Is essentially perpetuating
∞
© Sean Windsor