Why won't poetry still sing of beauty?
What of sunrises and sunsets
What of the moon and a star-filled night...
It still is. It isn't dead.
What of the dance of waves and seas
Or the music of the wind and rustling trees
A light summer rain, snowflakes that tumble
Has beauty as beauty ceased to be?
While wastelands are plenty — blue hills still call
A child still hopes as a toddler cries
Meadows are green in floral scents
A balm and kindness to tired eyes
Though strife torn —the world hurts today
And art ought to mirror the discord, unrest
The moon still glows and the sun still warms
White clouds still float - lest we forget