the death of poetry
gary jurechka
The dying gasp
of the last poet
whispering
the last line
of the last poem,
a stale flowery breath
breathing music
and angst
into the leaden air.
Bury him in the clouds
so the wind may bring his words
soaked in sunlight and thunder,
to set our senses afire,
to caress our hardened souls,
and fill us full of wisdom
and wonder,
full of light
once more.