Poet Tree.

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.

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