Poetry’s Death.

“Silence is the mother of mass destruction.” (MK’s Quill)

I thought to pen something down today; the irony is, it’s an elegy to poetry itself.

There are syllables that never form words,

Words fail to form sentences,

Fragments flunking to fit or assemble; let alone form structure, substance depth or volume,

There are states that freeze or vaporize,

Times that don’t stretch beyond nanoseconds,

Moments stuck in an alternative state,

Words flowing across the mind like skywriting on a still day,

While the heart aches in the east; instructing the first syllable to unit and form the foundation,

Just as the last letter touches the tongue or finger; craving to be articulated,

The mind drifts west; blocking the bricks to be even laid,

And what is left is pure blue insight without cloud or comfort,

The gaps obstructed thoughts to flow and kiss paper; poetry died before birth.

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