Poetry Died

Poetry died a quiet death
I’m somewhat sorry to say;
Meter is cold, rhymes are stiff,
And stanzas come DOA.

No couplets can help,
No similes do,
No metaphor—none—
Compares with you.

For the beauty you bring
To our ears and eyes
Is beyond any laurel
Mere words could devise.

So pity these poor,
Re-composed few remains.
But mourn not the muse—
For a new one now reigns:

Yes, my art sadly failed—
But it suffered not long:
It died out of shame
When it heard you in song.


∞Gregory Blair