Where is the space for poesy?

It will not fit the screen

Or occupy the aimless minds

That scroll their thought-machine.

And in its place, a masquerade -

A scattered, shallow phrase

Hinting at some absent depths

Made in pursuit of praise:

A simple hook to catch the eye,

Laced with the victim's cause,

Relayed with neither grace nor skill

That gains their great applause.

Yet we, the poets- seizing words,

Flames dancing on our tongues,

Will pass this world as silhouettes

Unknown. Unseen. Unsung.