There was a time when the Beltane fires blasted, the massive crowds face with orange heat,
when women danced, swirling and singing in an orgiastic fury. When a poet’s tongue could raise a lover’s skirt, and with passions unparalleled part a ******’s legs,
when well written words would stir adventurous hearts to grand feats, and the poets would be seen and remembered.
Now black hole brains and shallow stares sink solemnly onto their blinking screens. The poets are not seen. Their truths are no longer gleaned. Their words are not heard. Dull faces are lit by other people’s facebook, twitter, and instagram *******. The fools have forgotten the former passions of this existence.
Thus, the poets dies, unmourned by the unmoved masses.