A thousand voices, each cry rang true
the poets’ voices all sang through.
A silent night, a mighty storm,
death of function without form.
The poets rose, shrieks shrill indeed
’til echoes met with scorn did bleed.
A waste of space, but some would say
that time itself could not delay.
And so, from fell branches swayed their words –
a noose bound tight around their fate.
A meal made ready for the birds
who feasted on the wanton hate.