Printmakers paper, acrylics, ephemera, found leaves, coffee stains, and a piece of my poetry. With painted pages ready to add additional words, feathers, pressed flowers or leaves, and whatever else a heart desires.
Found in the Lost Pile of Civility (Jan 2019)
Seems to me
as we slowly decline
we beat around the bush
contemplate how to survive.
Generations realize this drift
on a sail-less boat
the cloth wrapped around our bleeding hearts
words confessed on bended knees
misses the sliver in private eyes.
Same old, same old story.
The beginning is the end.
The terror in other's minds
now belongs to us.
Realize hungry is,
and nothing eaten satisfies.
Measure our words against ourselves
need I stand upon a soapbox
add my rhetoric to humanity's misery?
As ash buries the smoldering coals
are we aware we are wandering
found among the lost pile of civility?