POETRY BOOK ONE: Poems People Like to Silently Move Their Lips While Reading

There’re those who say of poetry it’s dead
Completely useless since we write
Who thought no more of it alive
Than tricks to help a memory survive;
Deep tomes available now to sight
Collecting dust on shelves unread
As though this proved their thesis right
A deeper truth lies left unsaid:
The poems of these darkened ages
Deserving of their fading pages
Heard only in our drowsy bed
Before a hand cuts out the light
Returning us to fearful night
With anesthetic in our head
And just a little bit of dread,
And nervous distrust of our sages.

|| My Poetry ||