Fly away,poetry!
Flee!
The sweet words of a sonnet would maim and ****.
The hearts grow cold as tombstones
Where your words are etched
So old women can weep over the ground.
The salt of their wounds watering the patch of earth
So nothing can grow there
For centuries.
Poetry, you should not be murdered by hasty hands.
This is your pardon
From the pen
that would capture you, and leave you in your humiliation.