The Death of Poetry




It came,

Not with a bang,

But with a whimper

And the tears of a mother,

As the trees sloughed their leaves

And the flowers grew cold from the frost


For that which had burned, had offended

The gods who intended to grow

And the good of their glory descended

In the end, we reap what we sow


And so it was that I returned home

To hang up my coat on the hook,

And I called to my darlings to join me,

And I sat them there down in the nook


It was then in that moment that despair settled in,

As I looked each of them in the eye

For I spoke of the rapture awaiting,

And explained that the price was too high


No longer would hope

Reign down from the clouds

For the heavens had closed their gates,

No longer would justice prevail unfaltered,

Instead they had left us to fate


In the silence that followed

My daughter leant forward,

Her whispers still ring in my ears


“But why does the warmth depart us?

But why do the colors fade?

But why does the sunshine abandon our lives?”

When the crime’s only mine

To be paid


And so once more,

The morning dew rises

Building glaciers as tall as the sky

And my darlings are buried

A thousand feet under

The ice that I bleached with blue dye


But soon the rivers flow upward

As the sorrow slips from my veins

And the gods turn their back

On the promise they made me

And I enter the past of the void