Poems are Dead

Poems are dead, my Dear.

They are corpses

Bodies waiting

To be lifted up

And read.

Poems are dead, everyone!

Motionless and stationary

They lie down, buried

In the chilly past

Of a tragic romance.

Poems are dead.

For the flame that burns

Within me

Is now dying

Like a weak rose

Blown by the winter wind.

Poems are dead

And so are metaphors,

Similes, hyperboles

All that stuff

They are now ghosts

Haunting the twisted mind.

Poems are dead, my dear.

They died with the flame

That resides in my soul

You killed them, my dear.

You killed them the day

You broke my heart.