Here it is:
Your vanished civilization.
Parched bones amid the desert,
Dinosaurs long gone extinct.
You walk the desert
Searching, as you always have,
But your heart's not in it.
You have grown old.
You are withering.
The sun scorches the dunes, and you
In turn are bleached and dried,
Like the fossils that form the backbone
Of the museums you visited when you were young.
Do you remember the prophet?
Recall how the man wandered in this same desert
Looking for he knew not what
And then—
A visitation!
You are waiting for that visitor,
That angel-muse who brought divine inspiration.
But will they ever come?
The Prophet was chosen;
His transformation was a privilege, not a right.
And still you wait,
And grow older still.
YOU ARE READING
Poems Don't Have to Rhyme
PoesíaPoetry collection. Some of it is pretty good, most of it is pretty bad.
