Most modern poetry like waxen fruit,
has texture, color and shape, but protein not.
It flouts stern grammar's rules, it's rhymes are cute,
but style itself as art; no stair to thought.
Blackbelt poets exist to play the game
of piling pretty words in clever ways,
then hope their trivia will bring them fame
and glorify an ego drunk on praise.
Most men meet death with wonder unconsoled
and never learn their lives had meant a thing,
and poetry, the code of soul, fortold
them nothing true to aid their wakening.
and pen-men, clucking compliments, both hype
and cross-congratulate each others tripe.