Poetry is the last of the great Titans
Which once grazed upon the crop's offer
like a saucer leading cattle to the slaughter
Til the mediums after turned conglomerate
and banished our overlord to tartarus

-

My words are not a painting
nor the frame used to hang one
There is no currency in words
written silently on a blank page
Our savior remains dormant
locked beneath the magma
only gracing those who acknowledge
It's dwindling existence