An Insubstantial Pageant
The smell of burning books permeates the air.
It hovers about those engaged in daily activity,
Yielding a strange sense of bittersweet victory.
Forcing our selves, attempting to escape the smoke
We feel the result of harnessing nature -
The written word is our yoke to the world.
The word belongs in heaven with the angels.
What beauty lies below, corroded by our touch?
Yes, there are tarnished tomes that remain.
Just as we turn to the spiritual for relief
We plead for support from the muses -
In vain, we seek what has been lost.
Simple supplication summons our spirits
Forth to the battle. Will there be future moments -
Recording our efforts to mold minds?
Seeing the possibility of pyrrhic victories
As the vapors overwhelm our souls,
We struggle within on this earth -
Players in the insubstantial pageant.
From Preludes of the Mind, 1996 (rev), James Henderson
2 comments:
Oh bravo! I love it and especially the alliteration ..... tarnished tomes! I've always wanted to write poetry but have to settle for admiring those who do. Such an enjoyable read!
Cleo,
Thanks for the kind words. Most of my poetry is a little more positive, but often inspired by literary sources.
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