I find the constant chatter
Too much for a brain to matter
The drumming of old, rusted, battered
Once the contraction of old expires
Did hence the onset of unsecure folly, shatter
We once watched the stars
Pondered their meaning, such simple shapes we fought brilliantly
Least we ever thought, to escape this mangled chatter
Not even to see, nor touch, least gather..
And to the ships, whose sails century’s must, met clear skies with ease
The lighthouse, broken tailwinds hold on, humankind floats upon our rotting seas.
I speak. For those who may agree.
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Reblogged this on savingtess and commented:
For once a poem not a party to my book. Or should it?
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