Of Poetry - Poem by David Wood
Poets are martyrs to their art
For every syllable on every page
Words used sparingly with love:
What is their fate in future years?
Artists leave a visual record where
People can gaze upon their paintings
In galleries; paintings which could be
Worth a fortune as time passes.
Musicians leave their work for future
Generations to listen to and they become
Rich and famous in the process.
But what is the future of poetry?
Book sales are in decline as the years
Progress and social media networks
Are not poetry friendly and English as
A language is changing rapidly.
How will poetry be expressed in the future?
Does anyone care?
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You