So the hands of death took him away
as the legs of his legacy pranced astray.
The quaint died of too many archaeology,
If he knew his body of work was a carcass
he would have acknowledged the plastic surgery.
This is how the living spring died,
bloody was the bloodbath—
the virgin was defiled,
the new men broke the hymen,
this beautiful art was broken,
they watered the fire on frozen,
the rude awakening was awoken
of spoken word unspoken,
creativity that lacked creatine,
like the love before 18,
the break even couldn’t break the odds,
she broke her chords and lost the one accord,
he used to be a mighty god,
before heaven lost its humble abode,
he rose to power like King David—the promise of God
and fell like Goliath at war,
a moonlight became a gloom glide,
What a glorious exit! The death of a beautiful life.
Her glorydays now live on shelves of Alexandria’s library,
as this day send her odes in elegy,
downfall of the up-and-might; depression of a dynasty,
excavation of The Great,
the great purge of a prodigy.
What a destiny! What a puncture,
this glory has departed literature,
yesterday just died,
today’s genre is keen, the fire to refire lives,
this is the new possession, the new obsession ,
she’s everybody’s attention—the Tesla invention…
Tell brains, she’s the head,
the new way of life,
the new world order, in other words, Conventional Poetry is dead.
What a glorious exit!