A poet's fate

Poetry is the dead cousin of art 
It died in Stratford-upon-Avon, 1564
            So what of revenge dear Hamlet ....
......
When Lord Byron wrote of beauty 
She walks in; 
......
So what of beauty
.......mere words 
Eye creates lines 
On canvas 
The great aboriginal art
Painting their dreaming
The Spanish artist Picasso 
Painting his haunting
O poet, why you cannot paint
Can this brush not fit into your hand,  
Does your heart not feel
Is your soul dead? 
Poor poet; language dreamer
There is a rope in your garage
There is chair
There is a way
Out
And exit
From this waste, disease
Bookmark; 
    Watermark
           Monalisa
Raven
I, the sworn affidavit
Testify before thee
That art is not poetry
Art is heavenly
    Poetry
I've yet to see your power
        Where art thou? 
A hanging 
:
:
:
:
In the Louvre 
Testimony to the poets
       Write your art
Wrong your write 
      Bring forth justice
Bring forth peace 
Bring forth
That little bit more
To decide
A poet's fate 

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