The Age of the Poets

 The Age of the Poets is gone—

Complexity of thoughts is not the rage

Here in this sullen age—

Each person has made themselves a pawn

To merely pretentious right rage

 

The mountains are razed, but the valleys

Aren’t filled—the city’s in danger of flood—

Water and trees and mud

All blinding the eyes and filling the alleys

And mixing with heartless blue blood

 

No thoughts are cool serpents who shed

Their skin and shine here in their auburn sin—

Both-and renewing—win

Our ought in the years when we will wed

And culture will die and begin

 

The eagles now fall from the sky—

Their beaks and their fathers are oiled with prose

Fragments—the nothing shows—

The hatred of heights—no, don’t deny—

Belie that it’s love they oppose

 

The lions they want to declaw—

The artists, poets, rock-n-rollers—bright

Culture they hate and fight

To win by the force of the flaw

To bring on the night with their bite

 

The camels they want to embrace

Would spit, refuse to move—these desert beasts

Burdened to lose—the priests

Who pray and who prey upon the grace

Of hatred—on them they will feast

 

But the Age of the Poets will come—

The playing child will in the future speak

Truth that the wiser seek—

His wisdom and beauty’s not dumb—

You’re deaf—but this child is not meek.