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The Death Of A Poem

Shuffling at the bottom of an overcrowded jungle
Is the beauty of a poem I handed to them
The darkness and gloom filling its sights
Banished from their innocent minds.

Why not hop into the poem's shoes
And undo its knotted laces
Or place your cheek against its feathers
And feel its warming touch?

Fly back to the time where we swam through its oceans
Diving through each word and fishing for its delights.

The poem is not to be abandoned
In a jungle of runaway paper and drying pens;
Nor drowned by the filthy stench of sweat;
Speechless, voiceless, mute
Its heart slowing, and its doors closing
The work of art gradually dying.

by Emma Qerkezi (15)
Mayfield School, Dagenham

Competition - The Poetry Trials

Copyright remains with the author.