Poetry is in no way
A practical way of life
No great living can be made
By obscure writings,
Insane thoughts
Cocooned in fancy words.
So why do we do it?
Why cling to a dwindling art
In a world where art
Is becoming less of itself
And more of a shell,
Brittle propaganda.
Poetry, art, becomes this worlds dream
Forgotten, dusty, crumbling
Like towers of sand
Us poets we cling to it, those fistfuls of sand
And we fill out pockets with as much as we can
And we drop a few grains here and there
In the cyber jungle.
Leaving clues of a tradition
Maybe one day
There will be enough sand
For at least one more tower.