Poem
(Source – Pixabay)
*
Repeating the same old,
The same old, that it becomes a habit,
A habit to conjure the past from the dead,
The dead carried along for so long, selfishly
Building the monuments, tall and high,
Covering the vision that sees nothing,
Nothing but the monuments touching the sky,
The sky that appears to come crushing down (but never does),
And so one lives guarded, crowded by an idea,
An idea that is a few inches tall,
And a few inches wide,
And that never, never dares to stride.
*
Thwarted and beaten up by an idea,
A senile chap, no one knows how old,
Goes on living, seeing what is shown,
Hearing what is told, repeating
Very well the one idea that is known.
*
