a lament
on a winter's day
The number of times I cry per day is going down, but it’s still high. Who would have thought that I could cut out at so extreme a loss. The number of things I’ve thrown away that anybody else would prize, unlike my sobs: still going up… To add something so beautiful to all the things that I have tossed.
What do you call this form? (that you use so well to highlight the contemporary dilemma)
Do not kill the messenger. Poetry, or rather poets, is a dying species. AI can write poetry very well. The literary world seems to be in denial about what is coming. Sorry.