The inspiration died
The words fumbled
And poetry died.

The emotions eloped
The rhythm sighed
And poetry died.

The spirit fizzled
The content fled
And poetry died.

Poetry died this very day
For want of it all
It is dead.

But rise it will
In a new avatar
In a different garb
And a different hue.

Dead it is
The poetry you see
Frozen in its current form.
But as with all other things
It will thaw one day.
The day of its reawakening.