Poetry Is Not Dead.

As I lay my head to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
Poetry is not dead. They said.
Why should I waste my time then?
To dive deep into my sea-of-thoughts
And row my words to the shore of human intellect.
Adding up long winded nonsense of grammatical word play.
To what end?
So you think – Poetry is not dead?
Poetry used to be an escape for all. Poetry used to be a lover’s guide.
A preacher’s hand book; a teacher’s aide.
Aphrodite’s thunder.
What a waste of time they now say.
Hamlet swayed.
His heart ached. To be or not to be… that is the question.
Ophelia died.
Is Poetry dead?
No!
Pardon my boldness
Walk with me through the hall of understanding
Poetry is not dead.
It is but locked up in your core. Covered up by a lard of Amblyopia.
You just need to sit up, and on a day of love,
Show Saint Valentine a pack of compassion.
A box of Cliché maybe – yet highly effective.
From a cold child to your neighbor’s son or daughter.
Jump that wall of faith, and plant that seed of love.
Poetry shall aide your bid.
And a better soul you shall be.
Poetry holds the essence of society.
For in poetry love is found.
So as you read this piece not written out of love
But to direct you to love – A coy mistress it may be
Please drop your guard
And to thyself say this… I love you.
How poetic that sounds.
To my naySayers… what is the worst they could say to your love?
A no?
Then leave them be!
For maybe cupid – the angel of death it may be
Passes them over.
And refused to kill them with love.
Alas
I promised not to bore you with grammatical nonsense.
But in the spirit of love which makes no sense and holds no nonsense.
I bid thee well… but not without a cup from the refreshing well
Filled with refreshing water from the book of 1 Corinthians 13:4-8
For it is customary.

Love is Patient, love is Kind. It Does Not Envy, it Does Not Boast, it is Not Proud. It Does Not Dishonor Others, it is Not Self-Seeking, it is Not Easily Angered, and it Keeps No Record of Wrongs. Love Does Not Delight in Evil but Rejoices With the Truth. It always Protects, always Trusts, always Hopes, and always Perseveres.
Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

Let these words be your guide. And love without judgement or remorse.
No one is perfect, love is unexplained. A scientific misdemeanor, hence from where, who and how it will pierce your heart – a mystery.
Be true to yourself… Always!
And
LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THY SELF – HATE BECAUSE WE LOVE DIFFERENTLY IS NOT THE ANSWER.

Bonne Chance Mes Amis.
Adieu!

4 thoughts on “Poetry Is Not Dead.

  1. Poetry is the muse of life, how can it die?! Then life would have no meaning. Where would you find shelter if poetry dies?! Really nice piece Dear Mr. Asante.

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