Day 30: Not yet

Some say that the poetry is dead
That it doesn’t reach the minds, they said.
Yet, the wily part resides with ease
In the underpinnings of its devotees.
Goverse when you pedestal the stars
Noverse, in the metastable dark.
Candles burning, wicketized and bright
Little ball of omnicating light.
Wordornate the comical, amuse
By parasailed and floated words you use.
Poetry’s not dead, as vilers say
It simply waits to sing another day.

Day 30: Not yet

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