The hour is over, and I long for the days
When men still wrote poems in pursuit of praise.
Where the old would smile and the young would nod
On hearing a verse in search of God,
When turning a poem was as much an art
As drawing a drink from the well of the heart.
These are not them; the rabble I feed
Have neither joy, nor want, nor need
For the stories I tell or the verse I share.
All this, to them, is empty air
And poetry brings no thrill, but curse,
A malady, blight, a rot or worse
And yet it seems so clear to me
They’ve filled their lives with poetry
With their heads fairly teeming with childhood songs
And the rise of the headphone headed throngs.
So why not venture, if only to gain?
Why not spill the wine if it may not stain?
Or…perhaps it is your greatest fear
That you will see something in what’s said here
And your mind’s eye, like mine, will gaze
Back to where they wrote poems in pursuit of praise.
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