At Word's End

And here we are at word's end.
Where each vowel echoes violence
and sibilance is to sin
because the consonants are incompetent.
All because of a month of poetry
where the world was to lose it's woes
and we lose our inhumanity
in the reams of poetry,
only to turn into hyper-critical savages
ignorant of stick and stone
all too eager to kill and quip with word,
puncturing dignity with punctuation
as anyone who will not speak
is killed for their heathen silence.
Or forced into consonant concentration camps
to better form their sentences with eloquence
as we criticise without elegance
every slip of the tone,
every accursed cliché,
and even any pun for fun.
Too ingrained into competition
wars are won and lost
on the page
with literal death sentences
that see genocide run rampant
owing to a cry of plagiarism.
Our lives, like our 'new' poetry
are but nasty, brutish, and short
with rhyming being a capital crime
that sees many verse
with a vicious verdict of guilty.
We thought through poetry
our inner light would shine
but our harmony caused only discord
and the sunk has sank forever
leaving us in these worded dark ages;
so save yourselves
and stick to prose
before the grammar police get you.