The convention of rationalist poets.
They conferred and decided that the world no more needed
Feverish ballads about the slender Beauty with her
Ruby lips, shimmering patterns dripping off her ebony hair.
Woeful sonnets from spurned lovers, elucidating the sweaty pearls
Of misery and heartbreak, being turned away from her, sigh, Her.
Dreamy odes to the infinite oceans and the first snowflakes settled
On chapped leaves, those scented poems, recited by Firesides and kettles.
Passionate verses on tainted and denied flowers, on the marble Tombstones
Of war heroes, on naughty children flaunting their Taboo tattoos on the pavements.
Wicked satires on the Angels with their gilded wings, playing truant as
The world weeps, on the tyranny of the Usurper and his quiet menace
The clock stuck five, and the meeting adjourned,
The ignited match was dropped on a bundle of scribbled papers.
I can still see it, from far, far away.
It will be long before the fire goes out.