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.