C a n P o e t r y M a t t e r?

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There is a proliferation of new poetry
You won’t see it called poetry
It will be called sunrise
Like an anthology of all the sunrises

And it will have ingredients of
Dawns and sunsets and won’t care
Who is the poet laureate in that state

It won’t wake up to be famous
It will be just, words on public loan
For a species going extinct

The will be in denial that
Their world is going extinct
Just as poets are in denial true poetry

Is dying or has died, and nobody will know it
But the hearts will only echo it
And closed groups will try to invent it again

There is a frantic literary ambition
In writers, for they know they
Don’t have many decades in which to make it

Poets like to dream their work
May be discovered posthumously
But the problem with that is
There are too many good writers

And nobody might be around in two hundred years
To discover it, and it goes on
Poetry will be published in the
Hearts of youth, by unknown authors

And we won’t call it poetry
It will just be something that reincarnated
In them, something we inherited
Something in the brain

We didn’t’ have to take credits for it
In some undergraduate program
It will just be innate like speaking
And describing, what really matters.

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