Poetry Has Died

Blessed sun warm me
I am so cold
My heart is grieving
Poetry has died

Verse withered from creativity’s slaughter
Words no longer written
Thoughts transposed in abbreviation

Where once imagination thrived
Now sits minds blank
Robotic receivers of electronic display

Creating prose thought ancient
An art form now only in museums
Protected by layers of glass

Oh I pray a revival
May the poet be resuscitated
To write poetry once again