Posted in Poetry

Utopian folly

building empires
stakes are high,
shot straight like an arrow
bending for no one.

writing feverishly
drowning in the sun
paper folds are
creased, shadows underground.

faith misunderstood
one believing,
the other
floundering in perfect words.

discontented language:
spent concerns,
justice swept away
eraser bits are swallowed.

gods and kings, prophets and poets.

“The time comes when each of us has to give up as illusions the expectations which, in his youth, he pinned upon his fellow-men, and when he may learn how much difficulty and pain has been added to his life by their ill-will.” Mr. Freud speaks





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