the clock speaks louder than souls do
lost between cocktails and leaky pipes
we stagger into jobs, clutching hours
chasing a fading piece of bread.
the wise-man's corner sits empty now—
he moved when we plastered neon signs
and began looking for God in mirrors
where only smudges and ghosts reply.
what fools demand is always out there,
a gleaming horizon to nowhere special,
but the wise know: death sits quietly,
smoking cigarettes, watching the show.
the unexamined life, they’ll tell you,
is cheap rent in an endless eviction
and each day we pay with silence,
pretending the cracks don't exist.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: October 4th, 2025 03:43
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 30
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson), Eugene S.
Offline)
Comments5
This one was brilliant a Dillon type style to this poem (Bob not Thomas) It has such wonderful metaphoric associations and allegorical allegations. A poem that one has to think about to enjoy fully. A definite fave my friend
Thanks Soren my friend I appreciate your feedback
You are most welcome Gray
A great write much enjoyed
Thanks Norman I appreciate your feedback
richly deserved
Yes, welcome to the new world where you'll never retire, and the graveyards are full up.
Bound to be some politician who will change it though.
Thanks for sharing your feedback Paul I appreciate it
you have raised some issues here that demand a response - but will it come, or will we just keep fooling ourselves
Awesome! Understand the sentiment fully!
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