Sunday, August 19, 2007

From the Epitaph of a Dying (or nearly dead) Art

"Here lies Poetry; born around the time the human race discovered the joy of mixing rhythm and syllable died when the human race discovered impatience. Lived as a fugitive, coveted by men and women alike, taken several shapes and forms only to be shun into obscurity with the advent of its gargantuan caricature, the novel. Was often taken for granted and misused. Sole refuge of lovers and musicians. Died from years of neglect in isolation. Will be sorely missed by the few that would rather spend a lifetime reading a single terse verse than spend a day reading a 500 page book. Poetry, thy life wasn't in vain. Resurrect thyself in due time."

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