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Poem

It is as if I strangely sit between unfoldment and the
pit turn the heart and bend the lip of ageless silent
sun and trees of passing pageants aimed to please
the garish and the blinded throng from heaven sent in
hellish garb of bodies blown from end to who
have no goal but to amend raise sails and forward
step by step into the gaping jaws of death whose
heat and dust is lust to men who search for pleasure
here and call the flush of genius to stand before the
whirling throng of those who would be gods and dirt
where chance stands up and stares at passing
shows on empty streets and fields laid bare by
greedy hands heaped up on aimless needs
this play is not what you have made but is the
evening’s splendid ray that fall on ruins old and new
on tower street and avenue where tired feet that
cannot stay fall on and on monotony and pave the
way to gluttony

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