The End of Poetry

On the ides of NaPoWriMo
I thought things were going groovy
Ah, but little did I know
That they’d decided to rise up

I had no inkling nor suspicion
That my verses would attack me
Not until they showed up holding knives
(Keen, cutting words indeed!)

I am hiding on the next blank page
There isn’t any cover
But I like it here – it’s language-free
Except…I just can’t hold my tongue

And now I am surrounded
I can read the writing on the wall
Oh, which of my creations will
Now execute this sentence dire?

Et tu, “The End of Poetry”? Et tu?



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