#skeltonic
Art was never replaced
It was simply defaced
By eyes that carry traces
Of distain or disinterest
Disconnection from whats best,
About reading a poets chest
Of words and entertaining rhymes,
More to them like limes
Sour use of their time,
But what about the heart
Where lives the truest part
Of the souls love for art,
They say poetry is dead
Barking about value instead
Bringing home some lead,
Willing to scroll all night
With no health or might
Only circadian rhythms blighted
By the content with no contentment.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 7:02 PM UTC
In the mountain forests pine
Taking a day of time
To grow in the sunshine,
Shining bright white clouds drift by
Making shapes you see fly
Changing stories up high
Listening to hills sigh
With winds blowing breath
Birdsong chases death,
No dying on the peaks
For all the life you seek
Is right where you left it
Still sparkling as you sit
Under dark skies, starlit.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 10:20 PM UTC