Poetry is dead, he said,
As he woke up with the sun.
As his breath came out in gentle puffs
And a silent song was sung.
Yes, poetry is dead, he said,
As he caught his train at five.
As strangers all around him sat,
Just breathing, not alive.
Poetry is dead, she said,
As a tune played in her mind.
As she tapped her pencil on her desk,
As a way to just unwind.
Yes, poetry is dead, she said,
As she glanced at him and smiled.
And the way that he looked back at her
Just nearly drove her wild.
Poetry is dead, they said,
As their country fell apart.
As they passed by talent, love, and tears,
In tyranny and art.
Yes, poetry is dead, they said,
As they cried for what is right
And forgot how raindrops, long ago,
Put them to sleep at night.
Poetry is dead, I said,
Not something for our day.
And there are more important things
Than what I have to say.
But isn’t life a bit too short?
Aren’t stars a bit too bright?
Aren’t poets meant to talk about
The way things look at night?
So maybe things are loud these days.
But take a look around,
And maybe you’ll hear poetry
Make a little bit of sound.