Primitive Poetry

They say God is dead.
And we killed Him.
As if we could kill God.
Yet, we bow our heads with a slight nod.

I walk to the front of the chapel,
To pay my respects seems, natural.
Forced to look upon the face,
And forced to offer my disgrace,
When I notice this is not the face
That I was expecting in this boxed place.

It is academia who lies in the coffin.
For students sit silently in rows too often,
While information is spewed onto boards,
We string her up like strange fruit with cords.

Laptops are guillotines for creativity.
They steal ideas like the sharp blade,
That falls at the will of gravity.
As we sit and “take notes,” we fade.

Academia wishes she had died fast.
I know this, because I heard what she said last.
As I looked at her face, she spoke to me.

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