Desiccated Poetry

Despite the fact that a poem
Is written slowly and carefully
A chosen word at a time,
I find myself perusing rapidly
Scores of them a day.
Losing in this way
The evolving melody,
The engaging rhythm,
Sustaining the musings of the poet.
For only the tone remains
Like an empty carcass
Found in a sun dried and desolate paddock,
Only desiccated remains of a once living creature.
It is a disease of our time
To haste our mind
For rushed time and poetry
Don't mix well.
If it does not work for fast food
Why would it work for fast poetry?

L.C. Bailliet
14/7/2013