poetry is dead

poetry is dead
yes; positively, surely dead
and so you are
your eyes scream sallow death
in yellow jaundice
on your bed
there forms a pool of blood
for all you have yet sickly suffered
your hands your knees
your jangling keys
are screaming out for murder
and oh your death
will surely come
if not yet has soon pondered
oh poetry is death you see
for if not i then who would care
self-serving though it be
under soil it stiffens softly
all that you might see
a worm to feed
a life is seed
a poem is an anchor
and no one cares
and no one reads
for silence is the answer