These Days…

You say my prose isn’t flowery.
But those blooms are of times past…
These days things get colder, harsher,
No one writes of rosebuds and rue
And nobody reads about love.
You may prove differently someday,
but I think it’s because love like they had
back in Tennyson’s time
Just doesn’t exist anymore these days.
Poetry is pain, my friend.
You’re just going to have to deal.