Word

What's left, then, for a poet, when all meaning
is squeezed, wrung out from adjective and verb,
the simplest of sentences needs gleaning,
and metaphors, if anything, disturb?
When words had ceased to serve their proper sentence
and punctuation rarely gives a pause,
vain adverbs fail to sanctify repentance
and participles, partial to applause,
forsake -- indeed abandon rhyme and reason,
relying on the maudlin of free verse.
Should meaning manage to come back in season,
and bring with it -- both blessing and a curse,
ability to recognize a poem,
we'd best be ready to pretend we know 'em.