Zombie Bards
Poetry turns from the common man,
Turns on its arrogant heel,
Stalking away toward the cloistered academe.
Nothing is duller or deader than
Poets unable to feel
Love—or compassion, or dream the lofty dream.
Thus poetry turns from you, from me,
And talks to itself, indulgently,
And nobody hears. Quite understandably.
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