Dead Poets’ Society

For the dead art of poetry

Everyone has forgotten Keats

And write with their mind’s eatery

Full of glaring potholes and beats


That wring in the halo upon the skies

Is there a saint or a demon lurking

How the life arose from chaotic guise?

The answer is with reckless man becoming


Holy in the halo light of galaxies

Turning matter coarse to beat the nature

Of turning apples sour into jinxes

With every flight more of caricature


Here is the need to learn and be thorough

With the dead art of mixing love with sublime

But I know not a way through the Borough

As I borrow the phrases of the masters in chime


I am too a forgotten man having shunned

The art of poetry for a decade or more

And became a sheep in the clothing of the learned

And the dead poets society made a jarring bore


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