At a Cafe (surrounded by Wordsworths)

[the facade]

At a Cafe (surrounded by Wordsworths)

How brittle their faces
and dying their races,
but how textured
their words' worth -
shooting up and
mixing with airs
spiraling with smoke
spinning and settling
a beautiful layer upon
the grimy wood, themselves
and everything else around
that suffers
time and chaos.
They are weaving
the veil -
the only coat
to keep them warm
at night.

[Pensive]

Slow death of poetry? Or perhaps death of a specific poetic style?
I guess it's the beauty of a poem we can all interpret it our own way. Thanks for sharing, I like it! :)

[the facade]

Thanks Pensive! Happy you enjoyed it!

[Bar22do]

The Façade, I enjoyed your poem, it reads as if it "came" to you as is, slipping out of your sleeve...! Always happy to read your stuff. Best from Bar

[the facade]

Thank you Bar, means a lot coming from you