The Night She Played The Violin Comments

I write poetry in the twenty first century with a pulse, without letters of academia after my name. ... not preaching frozen expressions thoughts of cadavers kept and worshiped by zealots of higher education and their minions writing about the scent of a rose while mis- remembering the last time they actually inhaled one in real life... as the great chefs in the world are celebrated for new creations and fresh ideas; good bad or indifferent, why not poetry?

Can we the people not feel that we are even tiny lights still burning?