Is poetry dead?
A restless thought plagued his conscience
After dedicating fruitful years of his life,
He hath achieved none but fruitless self pity.
Chasing stardom in the big city
Once he dreamt of a better life
But as he came back to his sense –
Rhyme and verse and lyric are no more preserved
“You’re preaching an outdated art form”
A generous critic remarked.
Rest didn’t even bother
Soon his love for art slowly vanished.
As his dreams perished
He became a little less sober
His thoughts no more cherished;
And left like an unfinished poem.
Stuck in sorrows of home,
For one last time he painted –
The paper with words and letter
And each letter very precisely picked
And thus wrote the last great poet –
My art may or may not be bestowed
My rhyme may or may not be sung
My lyric may or may not be flawed
It will always remain my child
If all haven’t died
And if all haven’t lied
My art now unsung;
Is dormant and not dead
And remain ever present…..