Poetry is dead.
I am only writing to you as a
Ghost myself.

Do not fear though,
For in death restrictions are forgiven
And we can roam senselessly
Through the annals of time.

Let us read of the modesty
Of the notebook. Oh, how I’ll
Remind you of the typewriter,
Lest we forget its aggression.

The pound of the letters,
Each stamped with vengeance
Onto the page.

The digital age.

This is all still just an elaborate
And effortful attempt
To paint our hands onto the
Wall of a cave.

So, poetry is dead
And I believe you are too.
Else you wouldn’t be reading this,
You would have something more unhealthy to do.