Poetry is dead.
So are we, decaying one hair by another, rusting with time. Inert, lifeless, dying. Black and white pages have worlds of their own, a world which we inhabit but it will never be ours. A world of monotony and stagnation, for what do you live for when you already know the end?
This is perhaps not the world we asked for. The shadow of what the prophets dreamt and seers prophesied. Communication is lost, philosophies ring hollow, and understanding is incomplete. Language is structured and arbitrary. Modernity is a curse. We are the debris of civilization, realized in the irony of our fragmented narratives, where every day is the same, and living a moment is an act of infinite courage.