The days will twist and fade,
While night skies fall to dust,
Like an ancient parchment,
Slightly tattered, yet robust
In wisdom,
Sagacious knowledge,
Hidden gems and writing prowess.
To gather such antiquities,
Is not an easy venture,
Climbing up a burning rope,
May seem like an adventure.
Misadventure, that’d I say,
Embodies this bold challenge,
Sold an apple for a seed,
Will surely do more damage.
There never was a guarantee
Of the vagabond’s safe passage.
Damage? She wondered,
Feeling pensive,
Peering out from the car’s rear.
“Proceed with caution,”
Words that fell upon her deafened ear,
As she opened the leather satchel,
With a trembling of fear.
But what’s to fear? The bag itself?
Or what the bag contains?
Scrolls of old, a history told,
Or “truths” re-writes maintain?
Knowledge should be power,
And flowers should be blooming,
All the while danger,
Is on the horizon, looming.
But she cannot see the danger,
Nor the lost horizon,
The dust rains down as ashes,
Lining faces of the enwizened.
Threaded throughout this mystery,
While lost in would be history,
The heart is feeling blistery,
Because the truth is merely sophistry.
Which is to say…it’s not the truth at all.
O, the wonder of it all.
Wake me from this nightmare,
She’s awake, it’s true.
For if we sleep too soundly,
Madness will ensue.
Comatose while not morose,
A gentlemanly answer,
For the edits will invade you,
Like a dancing cancer
Cell in body and in home,
Never to be left alone.
For once the ancient mysteries,
Dissolve as untold histories,
Contorted into miseries,
While the night sky turned to dust.
What has become of us?

ancient wallpaper

If you liked this, you should check out these other great poems.

By and…Gone.

The Return

Poetry Classics: The Fly, By William Blake


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