Imago: a decastich

Show, don’t tell, the modern critics rave!
Let solely image drive the poet’s art;
so that this generation weaned and fed
on television’s drivel won’t complain.

Describe in such a universal way
that anyone with half a brain could find,
within a flash, some personal motif
illuminating their sad, pointless life.

What else is the whole point of poetry?
Who cares? Who still has time to enough to read?

12 DEC 2012

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