Poetry is dead. So? Yet another has spoken
An epitaph, leaving us to pick up the broken
Hearts and forgotten thoughts of the living dead,
Who scrabble for words after the scar has bled.
As for me poetry haunts me almost constantly,
Messaged words then phrases that incessantly,
Resist my head persist in my heart as if beyond
Me as if other sent : another’s stone in my pond.
And yet upon my further contemplation,
My poetry is an poorly attempted appellation,
Of what can never ever be fully expressed,
By those before me: or those lost and suppressed.
Poetry is forever dead.
Poetry is ghost written instead.