Poetamedication
There're those who say of poetry it's dead
Completely useless since we write
Who thought no more of it alive
Than tricks to help a memory survive;
Deep tomes available now to sight
Collecting dust on shelves unread
As though this proved their thesis right
A deeper truth lies left unsaid:
The poems of these darkened ages
Deserving of their fading pages
Heard only in our drowsy bed
Before a hand cuts out the light
Returning us to fearful night
With anesthetic in our head
And just a little bit of dread,
And nervous distrust of our sages.
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