Towers of Sand

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.