Read somewhere, poets die early.
Poet dies; broken heart, when life’s work
Delegated to obscure books of poetry
Gathering dust on shelves.
While, audience congregate around
Cable TV, Videogames, Movies, MTV, popular literature
All his lyrics, drama, rhythm and rhyme,
That makes the beautiful art of poetry is lost,
Like famous loud drums of Africa
That beat no more.
Poetry put into a box and shelved.
Isn’t it just poetic justice,
Poetry becoming a dead language like Latin?
Poetry ages past, entertained kings, common people:
Said what society felt, could not articulate.
Yet now dying art, struggling in the fight
Against the marching armies of media and technology
A poet dies like a rose, withering, fading with broken
heart
As audience shoots poisoned darts of disinterest
Brain dead he becomes,
Even before being declared legally dead!
raylitpoems 2004
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