Eulogy

Poetry died.
No-one cried.
No wave of grief was felt world-wide.

The bookshops did not cease to trade,
even the pulpers weren't dismayed.

A few, from duty, marked the day
at the Half-Mast poetry cafe,
reading all the poems they could
before the form had gone for good.

The last line stammered to a close.
I wrote an elegy - in prose.

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