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The Time of the Assassins: The Death of Poetry

    Words have no value. Poetry is dead. There is no room for poetry in progress. We are gluttons that feed on words embedded in lies. It is truly the time of the word assassin.

    Words dissemble
    Words be quick
    Words resemble walking sticks
    Plant them
    They will grow
    Watch them waver so
    I’ll always be
    a word-man
    Better than a bird-man.