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 tawdry baubles
Literary whores, 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
