“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
The predator on top of his prey
They became civilized
after many ages
and stages of refinement.
They wanted to live longer,
a race with no finish line.
They practiced,
they failed much, succeeded few.
They fought and resisted
they conceded and persisted.
They started
by removing death threats,
like hunger
and
exposure
They experimented
with potions and rhetoric.
They bottled magic
and peddled poisons,
to live
more
and they did.
They lived so long
they forgot their youth,
they jumped to the end,
decrepit at the start
with nothing to grow on.
They followed tradition,
it led them along.
Their bodies decay from security,
hearts get bored with emotion,
their mind aches,
blinded by the reflection.
They never should have lived
this long
this way-
which is why
they prey
on weakness
to make
go away
They
will
be done.
All men.
Image by Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/1498–1543) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
And then...
Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign, at first...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
No comments:
Post a Comment