in earliest times,
lord orpheus sang like a
god. then minstrels of
war with their drums &
horns, & troubadours
with their songs of yearning
love & sorrow.
in our times,
assembly lines of words,
scrapyards of bitching squawking type
& affirmative critical
nods.
the poet’s work was once
to keep the soul
alive. now the poet’s soul
dies first.
electron beams light the
phosphorous, talking letters
glow & the screen’s
refreshed.
how long before we
teach machines to cry?