GENERATIONS Copyright (C) 1997 by Not Nice Music
II. A COLLECTION OF OBSCURITY by Edwin M. Drogin

67. Untitled

No sculptor I,
But poet, blessed with supple hands.
A fragile monument to me
There stands.

A piece of paper,
Dirty, torn
Upon such things
The dreams are born.

In seeing, all the senses used
Are senses all too oft abused.
To think of all the things you've seen
Which were not worth the seeing.

The cynic.
All the poetry insults the fact that you
can dare to realize
How hopeless are the things we do.
How silly to go forward when
It's the only direction that can be taken
How silly to fall down and die
When the life from us is shaken.