Words, once obedient servants
Now claim suzerainty over ideas.
The age of meaningful verse has yielded
To gobbledygook.
Poetry, a grey mist half-understood
Through which I stumble blindly,
A mirage I chase through the sands...
The wells of creativity run dry.
Neither outpourings of emotion nor tender murmurs;
Mere craftsmanship remains.
Lines dolled up in ****** baubles
Literary ****** soliciting passing readers,
Fireflies, impotent
In the face of the darkness within.
The autumn harvest of verbosity is ripe
For the scythe of the Grim Reaper
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
Words, once obedient servants
Now claim suzerainty over ideas.
The age of meaningful verse has yielded
To gobbledygook.
Poetry, a grey mist half-understood
Through which I stumble blindly,
A mirage I chase through the sands...
The wells of creativity run dry.
Neither outpourings of emotion nor tender murmurs;
Mere craftsmanship remains.
Lines dolled up in ****** baubles
Literary ****** soliciting passing readers,
Fireflies, impotent
In the face of the darkness within.
The autumn harvest of verbosity is ripe
For the scythe of the Grim Reaper
