What happened?

The language I used to understand

Has left

In a privilege of mist.

Now I must relate

To second hand translations.

 

Spoken thought was something

To be admired

But now diluted

In a flurry of gym shirts.

The words are lost

In plastic muscle and pop lyrics.

 

The dead are once again.

They are armed with pens

And will not stop

Until they are forgotten.

 

And in this age

Of ink filled blank pages

I try to cut the link

Between me and those people

Who fail to see the poetry

In a burning insect.