Art was never replaced
It was simply defaced
By eyes that carry traces
Of distain or disinterest
Disconnection from whats best,
About reading a poets chest
Of words and entertaining rhymes,
More to them like limes
Sour use of their time,
But what about the heart
Where lives the truest part
Of the souls love for art,
They say poetry is dead
Barking about value instead
Bringing home some lead,
Willing to scroll all night
With no health or might
Only circadian rhythms blighted
By the content with no contentment.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 7:02 PM UTC
Art was never replaced
It was simply defaced
By eyes that carry traces
Of distain or disinterest
Disconnection from whats best,
About reading a poets chest
Of words and entertaining rhymes,
More to them like limes
Sour use of their time,
But what about the heart
Where lives the truest part
Of the souls love for art,
They say poetry is dead
Barking about value instead
Bringing home some lead,
Willing to scroll all night
With no health or might
Only circadian rhythms blighted
By the content with no contentment.
Skeltonic form poem.
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