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.