Some people say that poetry has died.
No point to put on paper poesy bold,
No longer needing sonnets - rhymes of old
Which one inside can softer feelings hide.
To Netflix, Insta, Amazon they run
And dull their brains with shows of Island’s Love.
No thoughts of flowers, nightingales or doves;
Minds choked with wealth and *** and hate, and guns.
But never they’ve seen your smile in morning’s light
And wished to catch it – tangled, held in rhyme.
They’ve never placed their head upon your lap
And felt the need to jar the safe delight
Of looking into eyes so warm, sublime,
And thought of methods, forms: eternal traps.