Dead Art

“Poetry is a dead art”, he says,
Throwing the words without caution.

But every night,
He stares at the moon with longing,
And every day he writes
His destiny with such elegance and regal air
That only poets can.

“Poetry is a dead art”, he says,
Throwing the words at the wind -

Yet he paints every sunset,
Every brush stroke carefully planned, measured,
Every color and texture
Telling a different story from the last.
“Poetry is dead.”

“Poetry is a dead art”, he says,
And yet
He lives and breathes the art.
No poet has a need for words when
Life offers a more effective pen
With which one writes of his joys and sorrows.

Poetry, then -
it is a dead art necessary for the poet to live.