Philip Daniel Cook

Sharpen Your Arrowheads

If I drop a pen from the highest point

does it cut like a knife?

Or does the impact 

lessen your faith 

in gravity's chances

to meet with your needs.

 

Every day seems to play

the same charade.

How can we make

your pen dry up,

and flow at the same time?

In the artificial world 

we rather live in.

Where numbers are

only math's cell structure.

Linking into the artificial shells

we call a heart no longer a home.

Where our branches of family

are hooks dug into your 

Promethean lifestyles.  

 

Learning to drown is just like learning to ride a bike.

You never really forget. 

We rise, and are fallen.

We fall, and are risen.

Obsolete subservience.

 

There is no backlash that ever stands

the test of time, unless in your 

vagrant amendment with the 

part of playing yourself off.

 

 



To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.