Soul Of The Age Poem by Xelam Kan™

'Art' flies, and 'Form' in exile mourns.
i sing to the critics (beg their awful silence and inquires to craft 'sublime' and fill that vacant space)
that:
body of poesy has changed various forms:
And so its norms,
i pray to the heaven:
to inspire my words with gentle heat;
that could turns the muses
to dance.
I (the poet)
speak only truth
and avoid ridiculous 'rant'
but this Art is now
'a slower way being dead'
By poorly phrasing
such unheard rhymes
that batters and mocks
soul of the age,
and bless nothing but rage.
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