The assassination of poetry

Saturday morning
the past week’s barnacles
still stubbornly clinging
trying
to unwind
wrap my mind
around
the widening girth
of a half decent poem
it’s summit
shimmering
in the distance
adorned
with mockingbirds
a kiss of lovers past
and paths
left unexplored
it was then
I sensed
the presence of greatness
of scales tipping
of Zeus
casually
leaning over my shoulder
and 
my six year old daughter
asked
if I was present
when Moses
parted
the red sea
I placed it
amongst other things
left to rot
collecting
dust