Poetry reaches its dreaded end when love becomes a grouping of letters, i.e., l-o-v-e, and not a spiritual phenomenon that alters the chemistry of the human heart and parts the clouded skies to view the ceiling of the Universe and feel the texture of the stars made pliant and their brushing against the skin.
Poetry reaches the end when a sigh becomes a word again that just lies in the mind with nothing to give it life and make it a silent spiritual reaction that warms the heart.
Poetry reaches the end when birds of iron become airplanes again, or when the sky becomes emptied out of quixotic dreams, or when hurricanes are the dreaded clashing of hot and cold fronts and not a majestic skyscape for the romantics, or when the clouds are no longer kept aloft by the Earth Giants who are visible only to the poets.
The death of poetry is when the poets lose the child within them; when imagination seeps out and leaves them with no abstract thought or not a fresh revelation that opens the doors to the threshold of creativity.
Goodby to the renaissance of poetry and a melancholy hello to the re-emergence of data with its proper meticulous words as the world lost its poetic charm. Goodby, goodby.