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Dying art

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Poetry is a dying art,
Of my life, it is big part.
Hoping, as time goes by,
Rhyme and rhythm never die.
All starts with nursery rhyme,
I wish, I could turn back time.
Our lives are set so bad,
You can only go ahead.
In the high school, the first love
Comes to you like a peace dove.
Success goes through the roof,
I am of that living proof.
When you go through adulthood,
Rhymes are getting really good.
Never stay in place, you move,
Only that way you improve.
Now, I’m adult,
Most things are all my fault.
Poetry gives me the drive,
Rhymes are keeping me alive.

March 31, 2017

© By Igor Packer

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