Poetry is Dead

Poetry is dead.

The world is on the television, and no one appreciates unbridled expression. My eyes are numb; my breathe comes short. Society stands upon a peg.

Poetry is dead.

Even the artists have abandoned its arcane art. They feel that the magic is spent, that it has become antique. How small their minds must be. For the greatest wisdom lies in Lady Poetry's bosom.

Poetry is dead.

She is not quite buried yet, but her corpse is cold and horrible and ugly to look at. Even the maggots turn to avoid her. And this is why she has not decayed. She is preserved by bacteria's utter distaste in her.

But I love her with all my soul. And her body comes alive when my lips brush across hers. Then I feel the faintest heartbeat, the most minuscule warmth reenter her body. She responds to my entrance.

I have temporarily brung her back from the dead. It is then that I know that I am one of her lovers and that our love flies higher than ordinary humans can even see.