On The Death of Poetry

O N   T H E   D E A T H   O F   P O E T R Y

I don’t know when, where and why,

But it happened.

The most unfortunate thing that can

Ever happen in life, has happened.

Call it suicide, stupid homicide

Or cold blooded murder

By somebody mad and bad,

Poetry has been killed sometime somewhere.

The corpse is yet to be recovered.

The grave has no mark.

The indelible accusation

Spreads everywhere in the dark.

Only the smell of the dead and nausea,

The corpse bearers’ whispering voice,

Blames and burdens keen to pass

Surround home and the nativity.

Can any holy escape grant me a moment

Of pure freedom,

A moment of fulfillment and joy

If there is no warmth of involvement?

Caged in the close privacy of our hell where only

Distrust and dishonesty dwell in dispassionate prosaic reality,

Life without poetry, like tasteless time,

 Is dry discordant movement without rhythm.