I wonder sometimes if poetry is dead. Replaced by texts and tweets and our proclivity for retreat. We want to be close, but wander instead.

The autumn leaves still change
And breezes still blow
As tuned into the vast blue portals
Short echoes are all we know

Instants of grandeur
Replaced by distractions we carry
Everywhere
We go

Connected to the great and winsome noise
Attracted to the ceaseless din
The world around us fades
As jaded hearts grow dim

But beneath the noise
Under the clamoring, the chaos, the constant distress
We each still breathe
Our hearts, still beat

So while glorious madness refuses defeat
Poetry, while rare, is not yet deceased