Poem of Poetry

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Poems have always been





for pleasure, for listeners





to lean back in their chairs
and hear a pleasant piece of perfection



issue from lips in illuminated -




Eloquence.









so Why
wHy-
whY-

are they so worthless to destroy




as a puppeteers’ torn Toy,





to be treated as nothing more




than to moaning students bore?

Such irks poor students like as I




to know that poetry must die.





so whY







wHy-
Why-

do all owls hoot the same?





might not One learn to crow-
whilst the others play the game
leaving the owlets feeling low?

Cast is the spell to the weak impel




to fight and fell even the greatest bell




That one day will not ring,
nor to the Heavens sing:





that poetry can be torn






or that poets be only born.

For all poems have not meaning
that is not obvious from the first.

Some seem it impossible maybe




Are just as simple as can be.

so why
WhY









WHY?

is it so necessary to dissect





and shred
and tear








and rip
them apart for Meaning
they do not- possess?

To hiss like serpents






with displeasure at breaking





Poetry
is only natural, when
sweet soft syllables






bring such joy
without once breathing
a breath of terminology.

so WHY
why
why-

when wise idiots deface





a perfect stanza
do we not relace
those words together
so they may be whole
Again?

If poems breathe life






into our life
then why do we take their life
from their lives.








Poetry is what but words if it is assigned no meaning?
Only… then is it,
Enjoyment





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