That day poetry died. The muses
left because the artificial took over.
It used to be that poets stood firm,
sang their off-tune verse even if
kings and tyrants demanded their silence.
Their muses laughed in defiance.

But there wasn’t a need anymore. The spirit
pools were abandoned.

Thrumming prosthetics
and an unearthly shine hypnotized
ears and eyes sleepless and
stupid.

The inner citadel became
desolate where the muses
once lived. A new drug dumbed
them down, insidious
and pervasive.

Some poets still sang,
but few could hear.
They lacked the receptors,
overstimulated &
already occupied.

That day poetry died.

Limericist, 2021