THE DEATH OF POETRY

The dying gasp
of the last poet
whispering
the last line
of the last poem,
a stale flowery breath
breathing
music and angst
into the leaden air.

Bury him in the clouds
so the wind may bring his words
soaked in sunlight and thunder,
to set our senses afire,
to caress our hardened souls,
and fill us full of wisdom
and wonder,
full of light and innocence
once more.

August 23, 1993