Saturday, January 20, 2007

To Poetry

Quiet art,
Feared and scarred,
Once Reared with care
And learnt by heart.
Once celebrated,
The wordsmith's mistress,
Now reeling
In subdued distress.
Her coffin lies
Half buried,
Three feet deep
In a decaying heap.
To revive her
Would be fruitless.
For want of an ode
Greater than her subtle death.

ps: All errors are protected under the tutelage of poetic license.

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