Must the Poet Succumb to Loss of Habitat?

The habitat for poetry is vanishing. This is no different to the coral reefs dying, or penguin breeding ground ice melting, but is specifically human. I merely note the fact; it is hard to presume survival. Years ago I identified the problem of bees dying and tigers dying—without them what context can there be for Blake’s “Tyger” or Dickinson’s “To make a prairie”—but suddenly I see that the problem is worse. The “habitat” refers to an interior region in the human psyche, I think. “Animals make us human” is true (or nature makes us human). Without the one you will not have the other. Human empathy may be on the upswing, just at a time when it may be too late to do much good.

As city lights disrupt the habitat for night-flying bats, have cell phones done so for poetry?

Here are some lines on the topic:
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Must the Poet Succumb to Loss of Habitat?

​With all their habitat destroyed
    The creatures can’t survive,
And such am I, before the void,
    As into it I dive.

As such I part and parcel am
    With nature, though a man,
But mankind’s mechanisms damn
    The world, with ban on ban.

With horror I perceive the fate
    I face, by others shared,
Which, though it seems to loom so great,
    Yet down will not be stared.

The modes of death are seldom kind;
    We pray they fall, less cruel,
While body has no war with mind
    Nor death with life a duel.

I pray, let me perceive, at last,
    The fuller picture, not
Some fantasy's false version cast
    By faulty modes of thought.