The Dream Is Over

The figurative has engendered fatalities. The words cannot redeem anymore. They are Laid out flat in the mausoleum of language. Forget the mantra of the old weathered script, The ornamental rhymes are now bankrupt. Draw precise lines not fabled flowers. For they don't attract attention to themselves. And beauty is in the eye of the beholder. We need to purge ourselves from the sentimental, And heighten the spare and the stark. So darken the colour of each syllable To mirror these tenebrous times. Don't eulogize sun, moon or stars. There are too many cracks in the visionary bone.