Sunday, March 06, 2005


in the end, we're all alone
like hurled bloody little stones
left to fill the ground
the valley we shall abound
names of people forgotten
converge into one black mass
lines and curves of every jot and tittle
become a poet's endless and ceaseless spittle
what are we and who are You?
to believe is to be branded a fool
but who cares of those things
You are the reason of our being
but dissection and arguing is what we've become
never more to be called the children of God
but instead we shove each other with our words
never for a moment to listen to those we hurt
lines and spaces become invisible
as our words become scribbles
listen but never ask
why trouble with tasks
our words are nothing but painful tacks
stamping holes into our brains with every verbal attack
poet's oasis is the silence of the sage
then hand out to the world an empty page
fill it, sieze the day
don't crumple it up and play
we are the food that feeds the mind
but what are we if we do not write
our muscles grow numb with pain
our subconscience grows insane
we stare into nothing... awaiting
awaiting for the final awakening

© 2000 thomas bates

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