Can there be poetry as the world slips by
underneath the weight
where reason and enlightenment collapse
upon the gate?
No rhyme, no mete no metaphor
corrupt the orb askew
trodden tiered the moral loss
the lute and muse once knew;
The end becomes the song we sing
and we dance the earthened mat
and waste away the hope we know
to bribe the devil for his hat
© Raymond t. Carter 2003
