the day the poetry died.
the music
left replaced by machine
noise

the poets once stood firm,
sang their off rhymes even if
kings and tyrants commanded
the pen
typewriter
processor
quill
bloody finger, silent

but the mirror-pools were abandoned.
became dry

thrumming prosthetics
and the kryptonite shine 
blinded ears and eyes sleepless

the inner citadel
crumbled the voices
once lived

a new drug
dragged them down,

some bards still sang,
but few heard
the receptors,
overstimulated
occupied.

the day the poetry died.









1.2 7/5

© right now, Brian Peter Hodgkinson    poetry • music • machine • meditation • artificial